Читать книгу Take Me Twice - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 7

From: Laine Blackwell

Sent: Friday

To: Angie Keller; Kathy Baker

Subject: Joining in the fun

Hey, all. I am sitting here at my itsy-bitsy cubicle pretending to be typing up important memos, but it’s my last day in this place (finally!) and all I’m really doing is watching the clock until my going-away party starts so everyone can come as an excuse to stop working, get free food and booze, and pretend they’ll miss me and will keep in touch.

Wanting to spew coffee at the thought.

In any case, as you all know, the fact that I am leaving means, as I promised, that Men To Do season is wide open. I have an entire summer of unemployed bliss ahead of me before graduate school starts in September. During that time I plan to make some man or men extremely happy to be alive, and assume they will return the favor.

When September comes, I will start a part-time job, begin my studies and remember once again that men are more than penises mounted on thrusting devices.

For now, however, let the games begin.

Laine

“BYE, LAAAAAINE! We’ll miss yooou, please keep in touch, okaaaaaay?”

“Oh, I will.”

Not.

Laine returned the bare squeeze her soon-to-be ex-co-worker proffered, and nearly gagged on the way-too-familiar perfume stench. Eau de Suffocation. She sure as hell wouldn’t miss that. This fact-checking job at I am Woman magazine was her fourth since graduating from Princeton eight years ago and she was done. Done! June first, and she was on her way to a summer of fun and relaxation before she started Columbia journalism school in the fall. Her first real break since…ever.

Ha! Take that, repressive slave-driving capitalist tools. She was history.

Her boss, Petunia Finkseed—whose real name was much less fun so why think of her that way—shook her hand gravely. “Thanks for the hard work and good luck, Laine. When you graduate, if you want to come back, please do. There’s always a job for you here at I am Woman.”

Laine grinned broadly, murmured thanks, and wondered just how high those pigs would have to fly before she’d think about coming back. Not that it had been a bad job, by any means. But she was free! Free! Free from the constant pressure, from the snarly office intrigue, from the barely veiled leers of the company V.P.

An entire summer stretched ahead of her; she’d take Manhattan by storm, do all the things she’d wanted to since moving here after college but had never had time for. Sleeping late, reading the paper every day, taking long bubble baths, sight-seeing, irresponsibly late nights dancing during the week, trips to the beach, a solemn vow to avoid panty hose before 8:00 p.m. She wanted to take French, pottery, learn yoga, skydiving, tap dancing, cooking…

And…find a Man To Do. Or a couple of them.

She’d joined Eve’s Apple, an online reading group, after her high school friend Samantha recommended it not only as a place to find fun and stimulating reads, but also as a good place for female companionship. Not long after, Laine had joined the smaller e-mail subset of the group, Men To Do Before Saying I Do. Their mission? To find unattached, sexy, thoroughly inappropriate males…and do them.

What could be more perfect? Call it an age-thirty midterm break. Then in September, graduate school at Columbia and the rest of her life would get started. She’d be on her way to becoming America’s best reporter. Granted a few years ago she’d enrolled briefly in a master’s English program at Boston University, and thought she was on her way to writing the Great American Novel; and granted after college she’d applied to medical school, but this time she was on her way. For real. She was pretty sure.

She grabbed her small box of personal items—pictures of her parents on their vacation at the Grand Canyon, her niece Carolyn on her first birthday, the scraggly air fern that, frankly, she couldn’t tell was alive or dead, and the gold-plated bracelet her coworkers had chipped in and bought for her.

Outta here!

Her next-door cubicle prisoner, Fred, got a genuine hug and a promise of lunch sometime, and Laine fled.

Down the hall, down the elevator filled with tall, gorgeous women in black and men in dark suits, across the huge marble lobby filled with tall, gorgeous women in black and men in dark suits, and hot damn, out into the gritty dusty chaos of Times Square. Free! She wanted to hug the harassed mom with three cranky kids, she wanted to kiss the gorgeous blond guy across the street, she wanted to create a scene by skipping, no, frolicking, no, gamboling her way to the subway, kicking up her heels and crowing like Peter Pan.

Except, in Manhattan, no one would even blink.

She bounced down the 42nd Street subway stairs and pushed her way through the turnstile, following the commuting crowds the same way she always did. But instead of bleary-eyed, leaden, sheeplike, obedient herding, she practically danced onto the subway platform. Hello, New Yorkers! Laine’s here!

She must be practically glowing. People would raise their heads and murmur when she walked by. Who was that woman with so much joy in her heart? What was her secret?

Instead she stepped in some just-chewed gum and spent a good three minutes trying to scrape the goo off the bottom of her chunky black heels.

No more black! The rest of the summer she’d avoid it like the plague. Except of course a killer black minidress on a hot date.

She filed onto the C-train, headed downtown and clutched her box of belongings, bumping against the other commuting bodies when the train swayed. She gazed at the ads along the top of the car to avoid gazing at other people, though she wished sometimes she could stare openly, like a child. Maybe she would do that sometime. People were so fascinating.

A body came a little too close behind her, pressed a little harder than the crush of commuters would make necessary. A pelvis planted firmly against her rear end. Ewwww. She grimaced and let her elbow make “accidental” forceful contact with the soft male belly behind her. There was a grunt, and the body moved away. City living could be so charming. But nothing could keep her down today. Nothing! Not even a gross grinder.

So what would she do tonight? Champagne? A soak in the tub? Maybe rent a nice romantic movie? Or maybe her roommate of six months, Monica, would want to go out, not that she ever did that anymore since she’d started dating Joe the Smotherer.

Just as well. Laine shouldn’t go too wild too soon. Taking into consideration her grad school tuition and expenses, she’d saved barely enough to scrape through the summer without a salary, but finances would be tight if she went too crazy. She had a part-time job as a marketing writer with an architecture firm lined up this fall, but she’d really, really wanted the summer totally free.

The train arrived at Fourteenth Street. She got off and tossed a glare at the subway humper, who grinned back obscenely.

Ick.

Somehow she was always the target for the creepos. Maybe because she was tall, she hadn’t a clue. Maybe she had been born with weirdo-magnet genes.

She charged up the stairs, enjoying the challenge to her body, and strode down Eighth Avenue to Jackson Square and toward her building on Horatio Street, mildly breathless. The sun was shining. Pigeons fluttered, shop windows sparkled, subways rumbled underground, taxis endangered pedestrians.

Everything was perfect.

She pushed through the revolving door to her building and waved at the tall, bushy-haired evening doorman. “Hey, Roger, what’s going on?”

“More flowers.” He bent slowly and pulled out a huge spring bouquet of tulips and irises from behind his station.

She shook her head, chuckling, and glanced at the card, not that she needed to. Ben. A guy she’d gone out with once or twice, a close friend of her cousin, Frank. Sweet man. Lovely man. Zero chemistry. At least on her end. And she wasn’t sure on his, either; he acted more like a protective brother than a suitor. Maybe Frank had told him to watch out for her.

“This guy is nuts about you, huh?”

“Between you and me, Roger? He’s just nuts.”

Roger shrugged and fingered one of his enormous ears. “He’s sure trying hard.”

“He loves sending flowers, I guess. You want this one for Betty?”

Roger’s red, lined face broke into a smile that transformed him from a sour, craggy Scrooge to an indicator of the handsome man he must have been thirty years ago before, she suspected, a love affair with the bottle had begun. “Betty thinks I’ve gone nuts. But she sure appreciates it.”

“They’re yours. He won’t let me send them back, refuses to stop, and the bouquet upstairs is still plenty fresh.”

She waved to acknowledge his thanks, got her mail from the back room and took the elevator to the eighth floor.

Friday evening, sprung free from employment, the city waited, the summer was at her feet.

She put her key in the lock of apartment 8-C, pushed open the door and stopped. Monica was sobbing over an open suitcase on the living room couch, clothes strewn all around it.

“Monica!” Laine rushed into the room, forgetting to hold the door, which slammed behind her, sounding like doom. “What’s going on?”

“He…he…he…”

Laine waited while the word surfed out on sobs. “Joe?”

She nodded. “He…he…he…”

“Oh no.” Laine moved forward and put her hand on Monica’s shoulder. Whatever he…he…he had done, it didn’t sound good. And from what she’d seen of Joe—cocky, brash, overbearing, big-nosed, obnoxious—she was only surprised it had taken this long.

“Dumped you?”

“Yes.” The word came out on a wail of anguish.

“So—” Laine gestured around “—why are you packing?”

“I’m going home.”

Laine turned her shaking roommate around by the shoulders, melting in sympathy. She’d been exactly where Monica was four months ago, with Brad—a stunning, charming, self-absorbed, cheating sleazebag. “I totally understand. A little TLC from your parents is just what you need.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Monica pulled back and wiped her blue eyes, smudging her already smudged mascara into bigger raccoon circles. “I’m not visiting. I’m moving.”

Laine’s melting sympathy froze temporarily. “Moving?”

Monica nodded and fished inside the pocket of her black stretch jeans, most likely for a tissue.

Laine blew out a breath, trying very hard to concentrate on her latest roommate’s emotional needs. No way could she afford the rent on this place by herself all summer with no salary.

But this wasn’t about her. And even pushing aside her selfish concerns, she genuinely thought Monica was making a mistake. No man was worth running back to Iowa. Not after Monica had worked so hard to make her dream of living in the Big Apple come true.

“You can’t let him win like that.” Laine gestured impatiently. “You can’t toss aside your independence and career and dream just because one big, butthead male hurt you. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

“That’s not all.” She sniffed and tried another pocket.

“Oh.” Laine went for the box of Kleenex, half feeling as though she might need one herself. “Well, what else?”

“Mr. Antworth made another pass at me this afternoon, and I quit.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose, then went back to her misery-impaired packing.

Laine’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you’re right. This was a seriously awful day. Mr. Antworth should have a dick-ectomy. But you can press charges. You can fight to get your job back and bring him down. Or get another job. You don’t have to—”

“And my mom’s back in rehab.”

Laine took two steps west until the back of her knees hit her couch. She sat. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Oh my God, Monica.”

Monica closed her suitcase and zipped it. “I’m going home. My dad needs me, and I need to get out of here.”

“Oh, God, yes. Okay, yes. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m really sorry to leave you like this.” Monica started crying again. “I know you wanted to take the summer off.”

“No! No.” Laine waved her concerns away. “I’ll be fine. It’s June, there must be tons of people looking for a place to live. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. You just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks.” Monica lugged her suitcase off the couch. “I better go.”

“Now?” Laine blinked at her stupidly. “You’re leaving now?”

“My plane leaves at nine tonight. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff or send for it or…something. I just can’t deal with it now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Laine nodded even more stupidly. Her brain was barely taking this in. Instinct told her Monica was doing this all wrong, that making a major life change should be done in a calmer, more rational mindset than she was in today.

One more look at the confused misery in her roomie’s eyes and the solution hit. “Leave the stuff here. I’ll find someone temporary to see me through for a while. Take a couple of weeks at home, or a month, or two, and see how you feel. If you change your mind the place is still yours. Okay?”

Monica’s face crumpled in gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Yes, okay. I just need to get out of here now.”

Laine hugged her. “I understand. I really do. The place will be waiting. You take your time and sort things out.”

“Thanks for everything.” Monica stepped back and wiped at her face with the by-now-soggy tissue, rapidly turning gray with a little help from Maybelline. “Say goodbye to Gentle Ben for me. I’ll miss all the flowers.”

“I’ll have every other bouquet forwarded.” Laine laughed unsteadily. “Stay in touch. You know the number.”

“I will, I will.” Monica sniffed once more and wheeled her suitcase out of the apartment. The door slammed behind her. Laine stared at it.

“She’ll be back, won’t she?”

The door didn’t answer. The apartment seemed eerily silent.

Laine crossed her arms over her chest, wandered into the bathroom and turned on the water to wash her workday makeup off. Poor Monica. Hit from every direction at once.

The cold water faucet squeaked on its way to off. Laine grabbed her pink towel and held it to her dripping face. Monica had been the best roommate she’d found, the friend of a friend of a friend. They fit perfectly. Similar habits, tastes, schedules, temperaments. How likely was it she could find someone like that again?

Not very.

How likely was it that she could find someone like that again immediately, who would be willing to be booted out on a moment’s notice if Monica decided to come back?

Even less.

She pulled the towel down and looked at her pink-scrubbed face in the mirror, pulled the scrunchy off her ponytail and let her hair dissolve into a blunt, shoulder-length, too-straight mane around her face. For the past six months Laine had looked forward to this summer, free from work, free from relationships, looked forward to this free-from-responsibilities blast-off period for a new rewarding chapter of her life.

Now, unless she could find an instant miracle roommate, that freedom, that cherished vision of a playtime summer all her own wasn’t going to happen.

GRAYSON ALEXANDER’s clock radio went off—6:00 a.m. He groaned and opened his eyes reluctantly. Extremely reluctantly. Because before National Public Radio news had come on with a story about Wisconsin dairy farmers, he’d been nestled between two of the most fabulous legs he’d ever come across in all his thirty-two years. Legs that knew exactly what they were doing. It had been years since they’d been wrapped around him, but he’d never forget them. And if his subconscious had anything to do with it, he’d never stop wishing to be back between them.

He reached out, thumped the snooze button on top of his clock radio and buried his head back in his pillow, trying to recapture the vivid clarity of the dream. He could still almost smell her, that incredible scent she wore, could almost feel the softness of her skin. The dreams he had about Laine were totally different from the dreams he had about anything or anyone else. They were so real he always woke up—hard as granite, yes—but also feeling as if there was something he should do, as if the dreams brought some message he shouldn’t—and generally couldn’t—ignore.

Usually he called Judy, his and Laine’s friend from college. He’d ask how things were, chat uncomfortably for a while, knowing he wasn’t fooling her a bit by pretending interest in her life, and eventually he’d ask what Laine was up to. Was she happy? Was she thriving? And, damn it, always that question that could never come out sounding casual and disinterested no matter how hard he tried—was she seeing anyone? Invariably she was, though rarely the same guy as the last time he and Judy had spoken.

The weird thing was, he always seemed to have these dreams when her life had changed in some way—another job didn’t work out, another man bit the dust—which freaked him right out. Purportedly, he didn’t buy into all that mystical collective unconscious stuff. Nor did he believe he and Laine had some special link, though God knew he’d never come close to feeling what he did for her with anyone else. But he sure as hell couldn’t explain this. Worse, rather than being satisfied having found out what Laine was up to, he’d hang up from the calls feeling frustrated and angry, and never able to put his finger on why.

Then a few months or a year down the road, he’d dream another dream, and do the entire stupid-assed routine again. Doubtless this morning, after his workout and before he started his calls, he’d be on the phone to Judy again.

He let out a groan and bunched the pillow around his ears, then sat up and shot both hands through his hair. Fine. He still thought about her once in a while. He still wanted her. Didn’t mean his whole life revolved around her. He’d work out, shower, call Judy and get the whole thing out of his system.

For now.

He pulled on his running shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, went down the hardwood stairs to his large, sunny kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. A little sugar in his system to get him through his run. Then out the front door, greeting the morning with a huge breath, stretches in his driveway and a two-mile trip through Princeton’s peaceful residential neighborhoods, particularly gorgeous in the spring when homeowners outdid each other with floral splendor, and dogwoods and magnolias blossomed in the woods and along the streets.

Back home on Knoll Drive, he went into his basement for extra punishment with his weight machines. He and Laine used to work out together. Sometimes he’d do her girly aerobic tapes, which he’d never admit busted his ass, and sometimes she’d come with him jogging. Those legs of hers could run forever. Once in a while he’d drop behind her deliberately to enjoy the sight—her ponytail bouncing, feet pounding, arms pumping an easy rhythm. They’d shared a passion for working their bodies to the limit, in bed and out.

The barbell clanged back onto his weight rack. Damn it all to hell.

He wiped off with a towel and stomped upstairs in disgust. They’d broken up because of his immature collegiate stupidity twelve years ago, thinking he could have his Laine and eat Joanne, too. He was still suffering for it, even though they’d managed to stay friends after the worst blew over. In fact, they’d seen each other off and on for the next seven years while they’d both lived in New York, before he moved to Chicago and they’d lost touch. Or rather, he’d tried to block her out.

Fat chance.

He took the second set of stairs two at a time and ran into the bathroom, shed his clothes, turned the stream full-blast and hot. Scrubbed furiously at his skin and hair, then stood, eyes closed, letting the water flow over him, then letting the memories do the same. He and Laine loved sex in the shower. She’d slide her slippery, soapy body over him, down to her knees, take him in her mouth and blow his mind. She’d tip her head up, his cock still between her lips, and give him that look of sensual mischief that said, You are so in my power, little boy. He’d reach for her and push her against the cracked yellowing tile in his crappy New York apartment and show her who was really in control.

God, they’d had fun. Sure, sex with other women since then had been fun, too. But nothing like the wild, playful passion with Laine. Even after their initial breakup, after the anger and bitterness and pain had blown over and they’d managed to be friends again, getting together invariably involved sex. Plenty of it. All incredible.

Grayson yanked off the shower, grabbed his towel and dragged it roughly over his body. Better get going. Time spent in useless mooning was wasted. He wasn’t even going to call Judy today or any other day to see what was up with Laine. Now that he was back east, the temptation to start things up again would drive him nuts. He hadn’t seen her in five years, not since he’d moved to Chicago. What was done was done.

He pulled on shorts and a cotton shirt and prepared for his morning commute to his office—a converted bedroom on the second floor. Given his and Chuck’s start-up company’s cramped and only semiprivate office space at 1841 Broadway, opting to call from home had been a no-brainer.

He sat at his desk and brought up the week’s schedule on his monitor. Meetings in the city nearly every day this week, which meant he’d get into the office fairly regularly, but spend too many back-and-forth hours on NJ Transit trains. Damn shame he couldn’t afford a studio for overnights. But with the price of real estate in N.Y., a midtown, one-room apartment would set him back more than his entire three-bedroom house here. And Princeton wasn’t exactly bargainsville.

He opened his e-mail program, scanned the messages, deleted ads promising him a larger penis or a chance to earn thousands at home.

Good. Carson Industries wanted a bid for their Web site; he’d send an e-mail to Chuck to let him know. And he’d managed to sell Granger Healthcare on the idea of redesigning theirs; they wanted a bid, too. Excellent. Other than that, more calls to make, trying to put Jameson Productions on the map in the Web design business. They’d done very well so far—he’d brought in enough jobs that they’d had to hire a second programmer, and Chuck had finally gotten his dearest wish—an assistant to spare him paperwork.

So it looked as though he’d be on the phone most of the day. Just not to Judy.

He picked up the receiver, made a call to Ralph Scannell, V.P. of Marketing at Office Mart, who was not Judy and who knew nothing about Laine. Ralph wasn’t interested in a new Web site or any other promotional material. Grayson shrugged. Rejection was part of the job. He made another call, strangely enough also not to Judy. Managed to chat with the office manager, but was stalled trying to get someone higher up in marketing. Three more calls, then three more, none of them to the woman known as Judy or anyone who could possibly tell him anything about his sexy ex-girlfriend Laine Blackwell.

In fact, he was going to sit here, with his butt parked in his overpriced ergonomically correct chair and not call Judy all damn morning long.