So Much More (2 page)

past

“You’re such a bitch, Miranda,” my roommate says with disdain. It’s an insult.

We’re in the middle of one of our weekly, petty arguments. Our arguments are never over anything of significance, they’re simply a product of our mutual dislike for each other. I roll my eyes, regretting that I have my back turned to her and she can’t see the full force of my loathing. “Like I haven’t heard that one before,” I retort, injecting the venom of the wasted eye roll into my words, as I turn to face her.

She yanks the strap of her backpack over her shoulder in true pissy, self-righteous fashion and stomps to the door on her dainty, little feet that are better suited for a fairy than a human. Her petite, ethereal appeal is one of the things that irks me the most about her. The other is that deep down she’s just nice. Which automatically means we repel each other, like opposite sides of a magnet. “I don’t know what Seamus sees in you,” she mutters before slamming the front door behind her, eliminating my chance to reply.

“Me either,” I whisper to an empty room. It’s a truth I don’t want anyone to hear.

I’ve never been the type of girl who needed a man in her life. Men don’t complete me, romance is bullshit. They provide folly in my otherwise structured and strict world. I enjoy the occasional game of cat and mouse, at the conclusion of which I consume the mouse whole with sharpened teeth after toying with it until it’s dazed into a bent version of its once vibrant self. Men are such simple creatures. The pretty ones are my favorite, their egos so fun to crush into sparkly dust.

Seamus is different though. I didn’t know it at first. When he pursued, I played coy and let him; it’s all part of the game. But then we went out a few times. And that’s when it happened.

I was temporarily stunned.

Bewitched.

Seamus is one of those rare men who has no clue how good looking he is, how intelligent he is, how kind he is, how
good
he is. He just
is
. And oddly enough, I found that incredibly attractive. It’s what drew me in. He’s idealistic, selfless, and genuinely believes in the good in humanity. I didn’t know men like him existed outside of the goddamn Hallmark channel. It made me want to be like him—to be good. He’s the only person I’d ever met who made me yearn for some light in my black soul.

Foolish, I know. That pipe dream was short lived.
 

Thank God.

I came to my senses and realized that idealism and goodness are a luxury afforded to few. And that kindness clashes with my life goals, every last one. You can’t claw your way to the top riding a wave of good intentions and hope for the best. Success is a science fueled by calculated action and hard work—it’s manufactured, everything part of a larger agenda. People are pawns. Morals only get in the way. Power isn’t granted to pussies.
 

But here’s the thing I’ve learned about having Seamus in my life.

I need him.

I need to keep him close.

He’s my get out of hell free card.
 

My good karma card.
 

My walking, talking goddamn repentance.
 

Being in a relationship with him is like living in a confessional booth. I sin, he absolves. It all evens out. I’m innocent by association. And goddamn, is he nice to look at.

I was raised by my grandmother. She didn’t have a lot of money; she was a lawyer who lived for pro bono work, passionately representing women who’d been wronged in some fashion or another. She shared her cases with me, and I learned early on that it’s a dog eat dog world, only the strong survive and thrive. She was vicious. My grandmother was the poster child for women’s rights and the original man-hater. She hammered into me at an early age that I could do anything a man could do…
better
. She was a brash, outspoken, unyielding, guiding force. The complete opposite of my doormat mother, a weak individual, compromised by vices and bad decisions that ended in her death when I was ten. She let others influence her and ultimately destroy her. I will not be my mother. I will be my grandmother. Nothing, and no one, will destroy me.
 

My grandmother was someone people didn’t simply cower from. They submitted, willingly or not, they submitted—it never failed to awe me. The fact that she could inflict power over others so effortlessly, and without remorse, made her a goddess in my book. She chewed them up and spit them out. I grew up trying to emulate her; she was my role model. She pushed me in school—nothing short of excellence and perfection was accepted—and instilled a work ethic second to none. Hard work was my ticket to everything I wanted. That and a little subtle manipulation when necessary; another handy trick she taught me. She was the only person I craved approval from because she’s the only person I admired. She died two days before I received my acceptance letter to UCLA. She never got to see our dream come true—attending a prestigious university and a coveted degree for me.

I took that as a big
fuck you
from the universe.

And ever since, I take every chance to give it the middle finger in return.
 

But for some reason Seamus is different.

He feels like another fuck you. A cruel twist the universe is throwing at me to test my tough-as-nails resolve, which makes me love him and hate him at the same time.

I want to cling to his soft heart, but I don’t want his softness to seep into my hard heart. Because softness will get me nowhere. And I have plans, big plans.

Everyone loves sheep

past

“I bet you were the kid growing up who always had his name butchered by the teacher when they called role the first day of school?” I ask.

He nods emphatically. “It still gets butchered, but yeah, let’s just say the ‘pronunciation of Seamus’ YouTube clip would’ve been helpful back then.”

I eye him suspiciously. “You’re lying. There’s a YouTube clip?”

He chuckles at my accusation. “Swear to God, search it. There’s a clip.”

I make a mental note to do an internet search when I get home. “Seamus McIntyre is an Irish name.” I’m probing for history, lineage, with that statement.

He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s effortlessly good-natured in intent. “It is.” The way he says it, I know he’s gone down this road of ancestral interrogation before, not unjustified because he’s a walking contradiction.

“Shouldn’t you have red hair, green eyes, and pale skin? Instead of all of this.” My outstretched hand motions wildly, showcasing him to illustrate my point. “Your name is false advertising.” He’s the opposite of red hair, green eyes, and pale skin.

He laughs before he says, “My dad’s family was from Ireland, a few generations back. My name was an attempt to reconnect to that, I guess. My mom was Hawaiian, born and raised. I look more like her, obviously.” The malice I hear in his voice when he speaks of his father flips upside down to reverence when he speaks of his mother. He’s opened up a bit to me about his past. His father was an asshole and has been out of the picture, by his choice, since Seamus turned eighteen. His mother, on the other hand, from Seamus’s stories, would’ve given Mother Teresa a run for her money. She died when he was a senior in high school.

“Obviously,” I agree.

He nods. “My middle name is Hawaiian, though. Aouli, it means blue sky.” Sentimentality, something I’m unfamiliar with, oozes from him. It’s fascinating, he’s an ongoing experiment. Questions and answers like this only add to the pro column. Yes, I’m mentally keeping track of pros and cons. I have plans for an extraordinary life. Seamus is unique in almost all areas, a priceless piece of beauty, and that fits well amongst the extraordinary I’m building. He’s a ‘look what I have and you don’t’ kind of specimen.

We’ve been dating for months now. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who can hold my attention. And vice-versa, I’m clearly holding his. I usually get bored. They usually get intimidated. Blah. Blah. But with him, there’s an odd pull that I can’t walk away from. It’s as if the universe has administered a biting, backhanded slap to my face, warning me to open my eyes, while screaming,
‘It doesn’t get any better than the man in front of you! Don’t be a goddamn idiot!’
My life has been orchestrated in my mind for years. A strict timeline, complete with deadlines for success in all areas: career, most importantly, and the picture perfect façade that surrounds it.

I’ve decided that Seamus needs to be a permanent fixture in my life. I need him to chase away the bad mojo I’m no doubt going to create. It’s not my conscience I’m worried about. I, like my grandmother before me, am not equipped with one; it’s my future façade. An enviable husband and a few spawn look good for well-rounded appearance’s sake, a wolf surrounded by cute, likable, soft little sheep. Everyone loves sheep.

So, I’ve stopped taking my birth control pills.

Seamus doesn’t know.

We’ve talked about marriage. And children. I break out in hives while he looks so contented with the idea I would swear he was put on earth solely for the purpose of procreation and his loins carry only angelic seed.

Cue the commencement of shuddering.

If I get pregnant, he’ll marry me. And even when I can’t pretend to be the Miranda he wants me to be, and the real me shines through eventually, he’ll never leave us. A baby is my guarantee.

The world I’m creating for me

past

“I love you.” His words are haunting in the dark. Spoken as his lips make repeated contact with my shoulder, my neck; painting promises and devotion. I’m greedy and love hearing it. It’s affirmation he’s mine. All mine. Compliant to me in matters of the heart. Willing, emotional servitude is like a drug, heady and boosting. I don’t love the idea of mutual love, but I damn sure love the idea of
being
loved. It’s powerful, because those who love are easily coerced.

Seamus is lying behind me. We’re naked, coiled in the midst of intimacy. He excels at it. I tolerate it. I do what I need to do physically to keep the emotional free flow on his end perpetual.

Kissing, touching, penetration, he’s skilled at translating what he feels into action.
 

I’m skilled at faking it. “That’s it, Seamus. Like that,” I sigh as he enters me. The sigh was a token for him
. I should enjoy this
, I think, as he eases in and out. He’s a massive, potent man, who always handles me with care and affection. His arms are wrapped around me, one hand masterfully stimulating from the front while the other pays close attention to the rest of my torso. His lips worship every inch of skin within reach.

This will go on for a while. We’ll exchange words. We’ll probably change positions. Orgasms will be achieved, mine included.
       

But here’s the thing.
 

I don’t enjoy sex.

Never have.

It feels submissive.

The physicality of it seems unnecessary, when my vibrator can achieve the exact same goal and in a fraction of the time. I’m too selfish to dole out pleasure to others. Which given the man I’m with would be nothing short of sacrilege in most women’s minds. Seamus is endowed beyond belief, passionate, attentive, romantic, and gorgeous. I’m fully aware that I’m wasting his resources with my lack of appreciation. I’ve seen the way women prowl him with their eyes, fantasies of role-playing the goddamn Kama Sutra written all over their horny, needy expressions.
 

My lust is for power. And that’s where sex comes in. Fucking is merely a means to an end for me. A power play. I’ve always taken this approach: my vagina is a weapon in my arsenal, and any stiff cock can be defeated by it. Weakened. Vanquished. It’s a tool to conquer.

And speaking of conquering.
I win!
Though my uterus objects vehemently to that statement.

I’m pregnant!

And I have a ring on my left hand!

And though I’d love to gloat and celebrate my victory in raucous fashion, I’m biding my time, quietly letting Seamus bask in the world I’m creating for me.

Yes,
me
.

There’s no we.

He can have the kid.

I just need the façade.