Nothing More Beautiful (10 page)

“Mr. Right? Mr. Right doesn’t exist,” I
growled. I lay back down into my pillow. “It was a dream and that
dream is dead.”

“Hey, come on. It’s not as bad as you
think,” she said, rubbing my back again. “I’ll invite Ashley and
Bridgett over, and when you’re done with this pity party, we’ll
have some ice cream and watch
Forgetting Sarah Marshall
.
That’ll cheer you up, I know it.”

She gave me a few reassuring pats, then left
me in the dark, as I indulged in self-pity.

“SO, YOU’RE JUST GOING
to
ignore all the messages you get?” Bridgett asked a week later as we
sat in the office.

“Yep,” I replied, leaning back in my chair.
Work had absorbed me all week, and I did little else, except fill
out crosswords while drinking Split Shot Espresso Milk Stout with
Colby-Jack warming my lap.

“Why don’t you just delete your profile?”
She cocked an eye at me. “Doesn’t that make more sense?”

I was staring at the cat’s eye marble on my
desk. “You’ve got a point.” I straightened, pulled out the
keyboard, and brought up my NorthwestMingle profile. My inbox
blinked at me, saying
Hey! Click here, you have 27 unread
messages
. I navigated to the first deletion point.

“You’re really going to do it? Give up?”

Her shocked tone gave me pause. “What if I
am?”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Maci,” she
said. “You’re a go-getter, not a quitter. You’re the one who
convinced me to start up this place with all that I had. You’re the
one who wouldn’t let me drop out of OCI. You’ve always been the
aggressive, doesn’t-take-any-shit-from-anyone personality, but
lately, I don’t know, you . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Well . . . you just
seem like you’ve lost your confidence, and it hurts to see you like
this because you’re so spirited, so strong, and young. Too young to
be giving up on relationships.”

“I keep trying, Bridgett, but they keep
knocking me down. You can only take so much.”

“Hey, I know that better than anyone,” she
said, walking over to me and sitting on the edge of my desk with
only half her butt. “After Jake left, I felt like it was all over.
And you’ll probably be knocked down a dozen more times, but in the
end, I think you’ll find Mr. Right just like you’ve always talked
about. You just gotta keep getting back up. I mean, I really don’t
see you as an old, lonely grouch, do you?”

I took a moment and reflected on her
question. The wave of bad dates had taken their toll on me, but she
was right, I believed in love too much to let the ideal slip
through my fingers. “No, I don’t, but it’s starting to look like my
future,” I said, half-joking.

She glared at me, but it quickly changed
into a silly smile. “Give the online dating one more shot, please,
for me.”

Her big, begging eyes prevailed. “Fine. One
more, but I’m telling you, after that, I’m done.”

“One more may be all you need,” she replied.
She scooted off my desk and took over my keyboard and mouse. “Let’s
take a look at your pursuers.” Clicking on the inbox icon, she
scrolled through the list of messages. “This one sounds good.” She
opened up a message from Sir-Do-A-Lot. His profile flabbergasted me
so much that I concluded there was no way he was real.

I regained mouse control and browsed for
myself. “I was thinking something more like this. I clicked on
HereForYou. His faultless profile promised a high
compatibility.

“Sure, he looks nice, but can he get the job
done like Sir-Do-A-Lot?” she laughed. “You still have that goal,
don’t you? To have an orgasm?”

I banged my head against my desk. “Oy.”

“Love
and
orgasms.” She patted my
back. “Right?”

I ignored her comment. “How should I reply?”
I opened up his message and read it a second time.

“Tell him you’ll agree only if he’ll bone
you.”

“God, Bridgett!”

She smiled. “And buy you flowers, of
course.”

I shook my head. “You’re just like Danielle,
you know that?”

“That’s because we’re trying to help you,”
she said, her smile widening. “You gotta break out of your old
shell.”

“What should I say?” I bore a serious,
no-nonsense face. She yielded and helped me write out a response
that agreed to meet HereForYou Saturday night for dinner. He was my
last shot. If he fell through, I was resigned to throw in the
towel.

DAVID, WHO WENT BY
HereForYou on NorthwestMingle, lived on the eastside, so we settled
on HUB—Hopworks Urban Brewery—for dinner. He was into craft
brewing, which meant he was one up on the last three guys. Saturday
night arrived and I had frantically gone through my entire closet
in search of an outfit. Danielle and Ashley were out, leaving me
without any backup opinions. My New Year’s resolution was turning
into an utter failure. I found my tightest pair of jeans in the
dryer and they fit just the way I wanted. I paired them with a
green sweater and a patterned scarf.

I drove Eddie down into the lower parking
lot and talked myself up in the rearview mirror. I kept repeating,
last chance, last chance
. About six minutes late, I found
myself sitting alone at the bar. He wasn’t as punctual as the last
three, but I didn’t dwell on that since I had no room to talk.

Twenty minutes passed. My nerves were amped
up from the wait, and I had downed a 7-Grain Stout in an attempt to
attenuate them, but to no avail. I guess I didn’t like waiting. At
thirty minutes, I got up to leave when a slender man walked up to
me, and said, “Maci?”

“Uh—yeah, I’m Maci.”

“It’s me, David,” he said, as if I should
recognize him.

“Oh, I’m not the best at faces, sorry,” I
lied. The truth was I hadn’t had any food to go with my stout and
he was a little fuzzy.

“No worries,” he said. “Sorry about my late
arrival. My car died and I had to bum a ride from a friend.”

His story sounded genuine, and he did make
the effort to get here, so I gave him a chance despite my
irritation. He was tall, dark, and handsome—and my last chance.
“Want to get a table?”

“Sure, yeah, sounds good.” The bar was full
except for my lone stool, and so was the rest of the level, but
they had a table available upstairs, which we snagged. We found out
it probably would have been worth it to wait for one in the bar, as
the small upper section was where they put the families with little
kids. Toddlers were scuttling around screaming, uncontrolled by
their parents, who couldn’t have cared less what they did. One
little blond boy was climbing up and down the two steps that
connected a section to the main scaffold area, eventually tripping
and smashing his nose into the floor. His screams filled the whole
restaurant until his parents got him outside. Thankfully, they
never returned.

When the waiter got to us, I ordered the
Jackie Treehorn Porter, going for a slightly lighter beer, plus an
order of their famous pretzels. I couldn’t help myself. I was
starving and they sounded delicious.

“The pretzels are one of my favorite things
about this place,” David said, like-minded in his love of soft
pretzels and gooey brewery cheese. He tore them apart and dunked a
piece into the condiment saucer.

“I love the ones at Widmer more,” I said,
tearing off a bite. “But these come in a close second,” I added,
hoping the comment wasn’t off-putting.

He nodded with indifference.

The meal went well, just as it had with
Andre, which said little about where the night was heading. Our
conversation never lagged, and David was engaging to talk with,
even more so than Andre. He wasn’t wealthy like Andre, but he
possessed a certain charm that intrigued me, and I found it hard to
take my eyes off him. He had scorching brown eyes, short styled
hair, and a rugged face that pulled me in.

“Would you mind giving me a lift home?” he
asked, apologetically.

“Sure,” I answered, putting on a seductive
smile, hoping he’d catch on. I was ready to move past Ryan, and
David had won me over. “My car is down below.”

He lived close enough that Eddie’s heater
never kicked in, which could take 25 minutes sometimes. The
apartment complex was large with assigned parking, but he directed
me to a guest spot. We sat in the cold as Eddie idled. “So, would
you like to come in and watch a movie?” he asked, his eyes
twinkling under the parking lamps, his voice heady.

“I’d love to.” I killed Eddie and locked him
manually. David’s one-bedroom apartment was small, crowded with
stained furniture. A stench accompanied the dingy setup—a musty,
choking funk that had me thinking twice about what I was about to
do. I chose to brave it out. I needed this. I needed to move
on.

“I’ve a sad selection, but you can browse
through them in that cabinet and pick one.” He pointed with his
nose at a tall, out-of-place cabinet beside the TV. It looked as
though it had once been a part of an entertainment center, but had
since been dismantled and pawned for parts. He walked into the
kitchen, out of sight.

“Nice place you have,” I said, poorly hiding
my actual opinion of it. I opened the cabinet and scanned the
titles.

“Thanks. It’s not much, but I make do,” he
shouted from the kitchen. The creak of a fridge opening caught my
attention. “You want a beer? I have some Black Butte Porter.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He entered the living room carrying two open
bottles and set one on the flimsy plastic coffee table. “Find
one?”

I nodded, holding up
No Reservations
.
“One of my favorites.”

He furrowed his brow, squinting at the
title. “Uh—that’s not mine. Must’ve been left behind by an ex.”

“Ah,” I said, turning on the DVD player and
slipping the disc into the slot. “Well, it’s worth watching at
least once.” At the main menu, I pressed play, then sat down beside
him, grabbing the cold bottle designated for me. Silence
overwhelmed the room for the first five minutes. “So, I see you
watch a lot of comedies.” He wasn’t even making an effort to get my
clothes off.

He took a sip. “Yeah. I’m a big Rob
Schneider fan. Loved
The Benchwarmers
, if you’ve seen it.
It’s insanely funny.” He put his beer down. “You want to make out?”
he asked before I could reply to his first question.

Stunned by the sudden course change, I
appraised his features one more time before making a final,
no-turning-back decision. He reminded me of a tanner Josh Duhamel,
and the scruffy look really worked for him, and for me, at the
time. “Pretty forward,” I said, with a hint of admiration at his
confidence.
Yeah, what the hell?
“Sure,” was all I said, as
I plunked my bottle down on the coffee table.

We leaned into each other and he pushed his
lips hard against mine. He reached for my thigh, quickly sliding up
under my shirt and squeezing my breast. His touch was rough and
rapid as he roamed my body. He probed my mouth awkwardly, sliding
his tongue against my teeth.

I fell onto my back, pulling him down with
me. He reduced the force and speed of his kisses, as if realizing
we weren’t in a race. The softer touch sent shivers down my back
and my skin flushed with excitement. I could feel his erection
stiffening against my leg, and I remembered how good it could feel
to be so close to another person, the blood swirling in my body,
reaching my groin.

Our breathing escalated, both shallow and
fast. Suddenly his hand dove between my legs, rubbing in circles.
Startling at first, I relaxed, letting the sensation overwhelm me.
I groaned quietly. I had never been a screamer.

His fingers rushed for the button that held
up my jeans, then unzipped them in a hurry. I lifted my butt up and
struggled to slide the tight material down my legs. He backed up on
his knees, using his strength to tug them down. Freed, he threw
them across the room. He returned to his work, palming my clit. I
could feel the wetness dripping out of me as he continued his
circles. He shifted my panties aside and stroked. “Nice and
wet.”

I ignored the off-putting way he said
it.

Abruptly, he launched off the couch and
pulled down his pants in zero seconds flat. His erection looked as
though it was about to burst through his underwear. He paused for a
moment, as though he were compelling me to stare at him in
anticipation, then stripped off his briefs, sending them flying.
His erection bounced in the movement, stiff and ready. He climbed
on top of me, spreading my legs apart. He paused again, this time
hesitant. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, drawing him into a kiss. “I
have an IUD.”

He gave me a funny look but shrugged off
whatever deterrent made him form that face. Wasting no time, he
clumsily poked at my entrance. Finally, he slipped in, and a surge
of sweet sensation erupted between my legs, running up my back,
tingling the back of my head.
Is this it, an orgasm?
No,
this is normal. I’ve felt this before.
It was warm and
thrilling, but there had to be more.

He began thrusting hard, pounding and
pounding, forgoing kissing as he concentrated on the motion while
holding himself up, one arm on the couch’s back, the other on the
cushion by my shoulder.

I groaned, throwing my hands behind my
head.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” he said
unexpectedly. I had never been one for dirty talk. “Yeah,” he
continued. “Yeah, baby. Say you’re my dirty little girl. Say it.
Yeah, say it.”

What the hell? Did he just ask me to call
him his little girl?
I shoved his commentary aside, pretending
I misheard him.

He went into turbo mode and forgot all about
me. “Yeah, say you’re my dirty little girl.” He came, less than two
minutes after he’d started.

What the fuck just happened?
I asked
myself as he pulled out. I shuddered from the abrupt change.