Nothing More Beautiful (11 page)

Semen leaked onto the couch. He looked
lazily ahead for a few moments, spent, and then tumbled back and
collapsed into a beanbag chair. “Where’s your bathroom?” I asked,
my voice meek and disturbed.

Distant, he pointed to a hallway. I grabbed
my clutch and rushed for the door with yellow-white sperm dribbling
down my leg. I wiped it off and squatted above the filthy toilet,
waiting to rid myself of the rest. Mulling over the incident, I
felt so dirty and strange and unsatisfied. After changing into the
spare thong in my clutch, I checked my phone. 1:23 a.m.
Goddammit.
23 again—why did that number haunt me so? I
didn’t have to work until nine tomorrow, but I was too tipsy to
drive home. Decision time.

When I entered the living room, I found it
empty, the movie still playing. I nudged open David’s bedroom door
and saw him passed out on his bed, ass up.
Well, at least there
will be no cuddling with the weirdo
. The consolation was
bittersweet. It hadn’t been magical or even that stimulating, and
left me more miserable than before, with an unpleasant aftertaste
in my mouth.

I turned up the heater before I sat down on
the couch. Watching the movie, I drained what remained in my
bottle. Lying down, I drifted off, my thoughts centered on Vince. I
bet with him it would have happened. He actually made my heart skip
a beat in his presence. No one had done that before, not in the
same way.

Within minutes, I was out as Vince consumed
my dreams.

I WOKE UP, GASPING.
I
scanned the apartment as a million images from the night before
flooded my mind. I checked my phone. 8:11. If David was awake, he
was being curiously silent. Heading for the bathroom, I glanced
inside his room and spotted him sprawled out, half his sheets
hanging off the bed.

What a disappointment.

I got in and out of the bathroom as fast as
possible, finding Eddie in the morning light. I didn’t even linger
to do a second search for misplaced things. If I’d left something
there, it was gone forever, since there was no way in hell I would
be returning.

Without a shower, I opted to stay out of
sight of the customers for most of the day. The computer system was
still in development. I gave up after a dismal hour. I chose to get
creative and mix it up in the kitchen, producing limited specials
for the day. The variation proved a great distraction.

Bridgett found my story stupendously
entertaining and bizarre. “So, let me get this right,” she said,
sitting in her office chair after four, our closing time. “He
wanted you to call him his dirty little girl?”

“Yes, his dirty
little
girl,” I
replied, rolling the gym marble from hand to hand across my desk.
“Weird, right?”

“Not necessarily.” She leaned back and
kicked up her feet so that they rested on her desk. “Dirty talk can
be very arousing.”

“He wanted me to be his
little
girl,”
I emphasized again. “‘Little,’ as in he’s a pedophile and wants
little girls.” I shivered at the thought. “Not ‘dirty girl,’ not
‘his nasty girl,’ or any variation like that, but his ‘dirty
little
girl.’”

“Well, when you say it like that, sure, it
sounds pretty bad.” She shifted her weight, switching her feet
around. “But maybe that’s not what he meant.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “It was a
turn off.”

“But you slept there,” she remarked.

“He doesn’t know that,” I said. “I was too
tired and too intoxicated to drive home. The night couldn’t have
gotten worse.”

She chuckled, finding the tale too humorous.
“Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Does that mean you’re done
with the pursuit of Mr. Right?”

“It means I’m taking an indefinite break,
yeah.”

“Do you want to get drinks?”

“What, now?” I glanced at the wall clock. It
was only a quarter past four.

“No, silly, not now. In an hour or so? I’ve
gotta go home and change, and by the looks of it, so do you.”

“Oh I most definitely need to
change . . . and
shower . . . and completely disinfect myself
from the whole nightmare that has been the last few weeks.” I
stopped the marble and placed it in a special compartment in the
main drawer. I didn’t understand what my fascination was with the
object that nearly broke my neck, but every time I saw and touched
it, I felt a peculiar tingle deep inside me. “Anyway, I think I’ll
pass.”

“Oh come on, I could use a wingwoman.”

“Don’t you have Clara for that?” Clara was
Bridgett’s older sister, still single, and still as hyper as a
four-year-old on a sugar rush.

“No,” Bridgett said, shaking her head in
grief. “She found a boyfriend last week and is completely smitten.
She’s saying he’s the one.”

“Ah, sorry you lost her,” I said
half-heartedly. “Maybe I’ll come out next time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” She rocked
herself to her feet. “You going to be here much longer?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“All right, well, lock everything up. I did
the upstairs.”

“Will do,” I said by way of parting. She
left me alone in the office, staring out the window. A knock on the
doorframe stirred me from my idleness.

“All done, Ms. Goodwin,” Marcella said, one
of the servers who regularly worked the closing shift. She was only
a couple of years younger than I was.

I nodded at her. “Thanks, Marcella. And you
don’t have to call me Ms. Goodwin,” I told her. “You can just call
me Maci—it’s fine. You can call Ms. Greenfield ‘Bridgett,’ too. We
don’t care.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll remember that. See
ya later.” She waved nervously, as if I were some big-shot
executive.

I gave her a warm smile. “Have a good
night.” I went from room to room and turned off the main lights,
locked up, then decided to walk over to Powell’s to see what
Danielle was up to. I had texted her in the early afternoon, but
she never replied, which was odd since only rare circumstances kept
Danielle from her phone. The walk was cold, the overcast dreary. It
reflected my feelings well.

If Danielle worked on Sundays, she usually
worked at the Hawthorne branch. I was hoping today wasn’t one of
those strange schedules. To my luck, she was in the back, at the
desk she used when she worked there. “Knock, knock,” I said,
tapping on the door with my knuckles.

“Maci, hey,” she said in an exhausted,
strained voice.

“You all right? You look dead.” I walked in
and sat in a vacant chair.

“Yeah, just
tired . . . didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Ashley and I got in a stupid fight about
how many layers the cake should have.” She hung her head. “I know,
I know . . .”

“Layers, really?” I grinned at her.

“Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson,” she
muttered. She yawned, a great, powerful yawn. “What about you?
How’d your date go?”

I relived the night and the excruciating
finale, supplying all the details. “You know what you need?”
Danielle started after I finished.

Oh, God. Another lecture.
I tilted my
head, preparing myself. “I’m sure I’m about to find out.”

“You need to find out what you like,” she
advised, “sexually, I mean. You should go browse the Human
Sexuality section and find something on women’s sexuality and
exploration, or something like that.”

I sighed and rubbed my face with both hands.
“Why is everyone telling me to change my sexuality—gah! It’s
getting ridiculous.”

“All right, don’t. It was just a
suggestion.” She turned her attention back to the papers before
her. “You want to get dinner at U-Brew? I should be done in about
an hour.” It was clear she was also fed up with hearing me complain
about her counsel.

“Sure, I’ll see you at home,” I said,
shutting the door as I left. In front of the office, I passed the
sign that pointed out the small Human Sexuality section and paused.
Maybe she was right. Maybe they were all right. Maybe I needed to
open up more, try new things, see what I liked and didn’t like, and
maybe a book would help with that. It would be private. No one
would have to know.

I whirled around and gazed at the titles on
the shelf.
For Yourself:
The Fulfillment of Female
Sexuality
stood out, along with
Secrets of the Sexually
Satisfied Woman
, and I compared the two with a diligent eye.
After heavy consideration, I was leaning toward
Secrets,
then—

“Maci?” someone said behind me.

Startled, I dropped the books, flushing. I
jumped around and saw Vince standing there with his warm brown eyes
reading my reaction.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, bending down to
retrieve the fallen books.

I panicked and shot down to get there first.
Our heads clashed as I fought to collect the books. Too late, he
was already holding one in his hands as his butt hit the floor.
Oh, God!
How can I get out of this alive?

He groaned from the encounter but launched
to his feet before I could gather my senses, offering me a steady
hand. I gazed up at him, my cheeks on fire. “You all right?” he
asked, pulling me up.

I smiled, but it was faint and
uncomfortable. “I’m—yeah, I’m okay. Sorry about your head.” I
rubbed my stinging forehead where it felt like a bruise was
forming.

He ran his long, sexy fingers through his
curls and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing.” His eyes concentrated on the
book for the first time and his cheeks went crimson. “Here’s your
reading material.” His voice turned hoarse and shy.

I practically tore the book from his grip,
despite my mother always chiding me as a child to be polite. I
thought politeness didn’t apply in this circumstance. My face felt
like a furnace, and I noticed the first beads of sweat sliding down
my unwashed forehead. I quickly wiped them away, acting as if the
collision had caused them instead of my embarrassment. “Thanks,” I
said, my voice cracking.

We stood there, falling into a lethally
awkward pause. “So,” he said, in an attempt to get the conversation
moving again. “How come you had to rush out of the gym the other
day?”

“Trouble at work,” I lied, not knowing what
to make up. Work trouble seemed a real enough answer.

“Ah,” he said, sounding as though he could
relate. “And where do you work?”

“Just down the street at Friends Bakery and
Brunch House. I co-own the place with a friend.”

“Oh, I’ve never been.” He shuffled from foot
to foot. Was it me or something else causing his nervousness? I
couldn’t tell . . .

“You should stop by some time,” I blurted.
Shit! Why did I just say that?
Sweat coated my body as if I
were in a sauna and I had no towel to pat myself dry.

“I might just do that,” he said, showing off
his pearly whites. “Hey, did I see you at the Fox Ten Wednesday
night?” His words rushed out like they just came to him and he
didn’t want to forget them.

“Uh—” The question caught me completely
off-guard and my mind fumbled for what to say. “Yeah, I thought I
saw you,” I finally managed, my tongue entangling my words. “I was
going to say hi, but you looked busy with your date.”

He bent over and retrieved the dropped book
he’d been holding before we bumped heads. By the cover, it looked
like a fantasy or sci-fi book. “Who, Alma? No, she wasn’t my date,”
he said, defending his availability. “She’s just a good friend and
colleague.”

My heart fluttered at the news.
But
why?
That didn’t leave the door open for me, or did it? “Oh,
well, I just thought—”

“I mean we dated for a while, but it didn’t
go anywhere,” he added quickly. “She was there for me when I needed
someone and it made us pretty tight.” Why was he telling me this?
“She’s great, but we’re not a couple. I’m single.” He was shooting
off each word like a semi-automatic. I hadn’t been around a man so
nervous in years. His face looked how mine felt: pink and slick
with sweat.

My jaw hung open, and I stared at him,
perplexed, unsure how to respond. Should I tell him I’m single,
too? Was he about to ask me out? My stomach tightened, my throat
clenched, and my head swooned a little at the thought. The deep,
dark passions aroused from wherever they hid, speeding up my heart
rate. I bit my lip, holding back the compulsion to jump on top of
him and rip off his clothes.

Before I could reply, the bearded passenger
from the car accident arrived from out of thin air, leaning into
Vince’s ear to whisper some secret. Vince wiped his forehead with
the sleeve of his blazer, nodding as his friend spoke. “Okay.
Thanks, Terrance.” He turned back to me. “I have to go. It was
really nice to see you again, Maci. I’ll stop by your bakery
sometime for a pastry. I hope you have croissants. I absolutely
love them.”

In shock, I nodded slowly. “Yeah, we make
croissants.” My saliva had disappeared and left my voice dry and
grating.

“Well, I hope to see you soon.” He stepped
back and put up a hand for a quick, awkward wave, then turned,
heading for the checkout counter at the front of the long, narrow
store.

Frozen, I couldn’t move. My blood was
pumping so rapidly that some terrible, abrupt end seemed
inevitable. My hands were trembling, so I leaned on the info desk
as a precaution in the event that my legs buckled. Dryness
assaulted my mouth worse than any cottonmouth I’d experienced
during my cross-country years.

I inhaled deeply, collecting my composure.
Analyzing his words, I tried to puzzle out if he was into me. He
said he’d stop by the bakery sometime. Was he just being polite?
That made the most sense after I examined the possibilities. If he
were into me, he would have asked me out, right? I eyed Danielle’s
office door and thought twice about asking for her input, but she
was in no mood for discussion, not even one so thrilling.