Stronger (2 page)

I finally whip open the door to find my new neighbor, All-Man-Aidan-Neighbor from 2A, standing in the hall.  His mouth drops open just a bit when he sees me.  I take in his body as he takes in mine, but, unfortunately, I don't have time for him.

"The laundry room is in the basement and it's free, but it's dark and loaded with spiders," I say as I turn back to check the candy dishes on my shelf that have never held candy.  I hope they will magically hold my rings.  None of them do.  He follows me into my room, silently surveying the pile of lace and heels on my bed, as I comb the top of my dresser for the rings again.  "There's also the Suds Station around the corner, on Beech, down by Jack's Liquor store.  If you want the grocery store, it's in the opposite direction.  Take Elm to Main, turn left.  It's right there.  There's a Chinese place further down on Main, but there have been rumors of cat shortages, so that's up to you."

I wait for him to say thank you and leave, but he's still standing in my bedroom door, with a smirk that is so sexy, I want to put my tongue in the corner of it.

"I was wondering if you had a wrench?" he asks.  "Can't seem to put my hands on mine."

"A wrench?  Yeah, right.  What kind of girl do you think I am?" I laugh, but I brush past him, continuing my search in the bathroom.  I stopper the sink and shovel my make-up into it as I glean for the rings.  A wine glass at the edge of the sink tumbles over but doesn't shatter, the little blister of dried red still secure in the bottom.  "If there was ever a wrench in my apartment, it would be under the kitchen sink.  I know tools have been under there before."

"This is your apartment, isn't it?" He grins as he heads into the kitchen.  I expect to hear him comment on how the living room walls are all painted different colors, or how the fridge door is decoupaged with artsy magazine photos, but he doesn't.  He must see it, but he breaks a record by not asking about it, and I don't have the time for a conversation to spring up.  I've got things to do. 

I return to my room and overturn what's left in my underwear drawer on my bed, rifling through the mound of thongs and lace panties.  Still nothing.  I pull out one of the rest of my drawers and do the same. 

"You have a wrench in here," he calls. 

"Yeah, well, people leave things here," I say.  "I don't keep inventory."

His footsteps hesitate and then tromp back toward my bedroom.  I peel off the lid from the coffee can in my closet, open up the cardboard pudding box huddled in with my nighties, and I feel all the way down inside the toes of my thigh-high boots beneath the bed.  Still no rings.  I'm under the bed, reaching for a purse strap, when I spot Aidan's shoes at the doorway of my room.  From where he's standing, he's got a perfect view of my ass, stuck in the air like an offering, while the rest of me is crammed beneath the bed springs. 

The thoughts that race through my head aren't polite.  They involve a million things that I'd like my neighbor to do, considering his vantage point, but it's also the last thing I need right now.  I've got somewhere else I have to be and being late will only make things worse for me.   

I sigh and pull my head out from under the bed, along with the purse I was after.  Kneeling beside the bed,  I meet Aidan's gaze as I dump the contents out on the mattress.  He's holding a wrench I've never seen before, and I catch him moving his eyes away from my rear.  The smirk is back.  I answer with one of my own, as I rifle the purse.  The jackpot is at the bottom.  I grab all my rings and stand up, sliding them onto my fingers one at a time.  Except the last ring.  I just hold that one in my palm.

"It's kind of early for a date, isn't it?" he asks.  I pause, resting a hand on my hip.

"Why would you automatically think I'm going on a date?"  I turn in front of him, so he can see my feminine version of a business suit: pearl-buttoned silk shirt, black suit coat tailored to my hourglass, fitted black pencil skirt, pointed-toe stilettos.  "How do you know I'm not a doctor or a lawyer?"

"A lawyer with a black lace bra like that?" he asks, glancing at my chest.  I glance down too and button the plunging neckline of my blouse one more button.  I shoot him a
don't you-wish
look, because I don't have time for these fun and games.  I step in front of the full length mirror in the corner of my room, doing my ceremonial turns and twists to make sure I have everything in place.  I fasten back my dreads.  The anxiety builds as I straighten, pull, adjust.  I suppose it doesn't matter.  Desmond will let me know what he thinks when I get there.

"And I'm guessing you're not a doctor either," Aidan says.  My eyes narrow to slits in my reflection.  He's got a lot of nerve to doubt me in my own apartment, holding what must be my wrench.  And guessing that I'm not a doctor, in that tone of voice, is unacceptable.

"Really?" I step away from the mirror, tipping up my chin to him and lowering my tone to a challenging thrum.  "And what exactly do you think I am,
neighbor
?"

His smile is so damn easy.  He stares down into my eyes as if he's dropping an anchor.  He doesn't look away, but I do.  Damn.

"I try not to jump to conclusions about people," he says, "but doctors don't usually rush off on the weekends in suits, so you've got me curious."

I put the back of my hand up to his eye level and spread my fingers wide.  He squints at the tattoo on my ring finger, but I drop my last ring over it quickly.

"What I am," I say, waggling the heavy diamond in his face,  "is married.  Bet you didn't jump to that conclusion, though, did you?"

CHAPTER THREE

A WORKING ARRANGEMENT

I'm in the back seat of the cab, bumping away from my apartment house, and I feel like a jerk.  I replay the way Aidan lifted his brow after I slid on my wedding ring for the entire ride. 

All he said was, "I'm not surprised, actually.  Your husband's a very lucky man."

"I agree," I'd said.  I gave Aidan a smile, but I didn't explain anything else.  I cracked open my back-up bottle and topped off my travel mug with another healthy splash of Jack.  He let himself out and I followed him, grabbing my poster-board-sized portfolio case, which I keep near the door.  Aidan was standing at his own door as I locked mine.

"I apologize," he said, glancing at the huge, rectangular case,  "if I offended you."

"You didn't," I said, but I felt a twinge of guilt at making him believe I was legitimate.

I don't know why I was so defensive to Aidan.  He's just a guy that lives next door.  Just a guy.  And it's not like other men haven't made the mistake of trying to call me a whore to my face.  At least he only lightly insinuated it.  I've got to remember that my three-date-max rule is in place to cut down on the whore-calling, but dating my neighbor would probably end with a lot worse names being flung around.  I sit back in the cab and watch the city whiz by outside, trying to figure out why Aidan's insinuation feels so much worse.

The cab jogs over a pothole and I almost spill my cup of hair-of-the-dog in my lap.  We pull up in front of the security gate.  It is huge and black and prestigious, rising up to a high peak that couldn't be scaled by ninjas and every time I pull up outside it, my stomach turns to lead. 

Desmond is waiting just inside the bars.  Even disguised by the layers of his suit, his powerful physique is obvious.  The way he moves tells a story about the kind of man he is: demanding, precise, concealed.  He steps through a door to the side, instead of opening the gate.  He also pays the driver before he opens my door and offers me his hand.

"You look edible," he says.  Once standing, I juggle my travel mug as I slide my huge portfolio out of the back seat. 

"I am," I answer coolly, "but we're not eating.  We're just talking, remember?"

"We could do both."

"No, we can't,"  I say. I always start off so solidly.

He chuckles, but doesn't offer to carry the portfolio or the travel mug.  Instead, he slips an arm through my free one and we stroll back through the small gate door and up the drive, toward the house. 

"I want to ask you something," he says.

"I assumed that was the
talking
you wanted to do
.
"

"Such a smart ass today." He flashes me a wicked glimpse of a grin.  "You know, we could disappear in among the trees..."

"Except that I'm sure the help would never believe that your trees needed decorating," I tell him.  "I'm here and I'm on the clock, so talk."

"You definitely are." He chuckles again, running his gaze over my attire, but he doesn't break our stride.  "We'll talk about that, but I have another question.  I'm curious."

"About?"

"Why do you come when I call, Lyddle?"

His voice drops to that low timbre that kicks up clouds of winged creatures in my stomach.  What they are is hard to distinguish--dark moths or blood-thirsty bats.  He rubs his knuckles and I anticipate what he will say next, like his words are actually mine and just waiting to be spoken.  When I'm with him, I am nothing more than a sophisticated marionette, waiting for him to move me for his pleasure; waiting for his words to fill me, so I can say exactly what he wants to hear. 

But today, I won't give in so easy. 

I tell myself this every time, but I hope that today I will stick with it.

"I think you know why I come," I say.

"Oh, I know
exactly
why you come," he murmurs so softly, the words tangle in my hair, as if they are his fingers.  The burn inside me begins to smolder and spread, low in my stomach.  This is how it always begins and I need to fight it, but real fighting would've meant that I'd never have come here to begin with.  His grin finds its way in and spreads me open.  "I like to believe you don't come for the money, Lyddle, but that you come because you love me."

"Less and less each time," I say, juggling my things so I can take a healthy gulp of my spiked coffee.  "I come because you pay me to do it.  I need the money to survive."

"Yes, you really
can't
live without me, can you?  But you're saying that you still expect to gain immunity to me one day and end all of this?"

"Of course.  Don't you?  You know we can't keep going like this..."

"That's where you're wrong, Lyddle.  As usual.  There's nothing to stop us, besides us.  I still feel the same way about you that I always have.  The more I see you, the more I have to have you."

"Then you should tell your wife," I say.  He stops and takes my hand then, removing the coffee cup and rubbing his thumb over the enormous ring he gave me, when we began this whole affair. 

"I am," he says, pulling up the ring and rubbing the skin beneath.  The tattoo there is the real wedding ring he gave me, only a few days after we got married.  Des had gotten me drunk to do it, then took me to a hack tattoo shop, and had his last name embedded in my skin.  We fought the next morning, when I realized he didn't reciprocate with my name on his own ring finger.

"I meant, your illegal wife," I say, pulling my hand away.  I wave a finger between us.  "
This
doesn't mean anything anymore.  I might still be your
legal
wife, but you married Claudia too and she's the one you're with.  Call it what it is, Des.  You're just fucking with both of us."

"Oh now.  Keep your voice down, Lyddle," he growls, pulling my hand through his arm again.  He brushes his thumb intimately in my palm.  It's humiliating when a few more strokes make my legs quiver, but why wouldn't they?  He's still my husband and his hold on me is solid.  I can't blow him off like the guys at the bar.  Des knows how to get under my skin, how to manipulate it and massage my ego until I open up my point of view, my heart, my legs for him.  I struggle to hang onto my resolve, just this once, but he's making my palms sweat.  "Tell me why you are still wearing my ring, if it doesn't mean anything to you?"

I take a drink from my mug, looking off toward the mansion beyond the trees, trying to remind myself that he's not truly a husband.  Not a good one at least, and it doesn't matter how long or how well he knows me. 

"I wear it because you asked me to."  I jut my chin and add,  "We both want what's under it to stay covered up so we can forget about it."

"So, it's going to be one of those days," he grumbles, stepping away.

"You bet."

"Maybe you were right.  Seeing each other isn't such a good idea."

"The only right thing to do is get a divorce."

"You know I can't," he says, stepping closer and pulling me to him, right in the middle of the driveway.  I'm an idiot to even be here.

His fingers slide to my waist.  I can smell the cologne that I love on him, the stuff I know he wore just for me.  His hired help will see and I try to pull away but he pulls me closer with a sexy
uh uh
under his breath.  I'm like a conditioned dog.  The sexy sweep of his voice, the feel of his muscles tightening against me, and the dark, enchanting scent of him all light me up inside.  He knows just how to get me.  The fire ignites between my legs as he ducks his head down to whisper in my ear.

"That's not really the way you want it, is it? 
Poor,
Lyddle?"

"Don't call me that.  You know I hate it," I say, but my argument is weak.  He knows he's got me.  I don't have a penny to my name and couldn't survive without the money he gives me.  I've been pretending to be his and Claudia's designer for so long now, it almost feels real and thank God, the paycheck is.  But, at the bottom of it all is my marriage.  I loved Des from the moment I met him and as sick as it is, I still do.  He continues, with a grin.

"You want me to want you...that's really why you wear it and why you come running whenever I call, isn't it?  Say it is, Lydia. Please.  I need you to want me too.  I'm always good to you, aren't I?"  This is how Des always crushes me--when he brings out the old Des, the one I fell in love with, the one who was always vulnerable and real and loyal.  When he talks like this, it seems like the Desmond that I knew and loved is as trapped inside this situation as I am.     

His face is so close, his breath is ruffling loose strands of hair that slipped from one of my dreads.  "I want you.  I know you come to get the money, but tell me it's not the only reason.  Say you come because you want to
come
for me.  You'll come upstairs...won't you, Lyddle?"

"Back up before the help sees us," I warn him.

It's sick how we keep doing this.  It's a stupid game, but when he's standing this close, his manhood pressed against me, he is my addiction.  He has been, since I was fourteen years old and he was nineteen.  He taught me how to love him; he was my first.  We were married on my sixteenth birthday, with my mom's consent.  Des promised her he'd always take care of me.

Married for only six years, and here we are, walking up to the front of a mansion where he lives with his other wife.  I blew off high school to marry him.  We moved across state. Even though we had nothing, I thought we were happy until he left me two years ago to get the lifestyle he said he deserved. 

He married the newly-widowed, wealthy-as-hell Claudia.  She hyphenated their marriage, but never made him sign a prenup.  No kids and no family to speak of, I guess Claudia was happy to have him.  Mrs. Claudia Silver-Strong is now his illegal, second wife, although she has no idea that I'm still his first.

In a really twisted way, Des was good to his word to my mother, if only financially.  He has kept me on his hook by refusing to get a divorce.  He says filing papers would mess up things with Claudia and, as much as I hate myself for it, we both depend on her for our living.  Des tells me he loves me and screws me in secret like a mistress, but he also gives me more money than I could ever hope to make on my own, even if I was stripping.  He went from being my husband, to being my job, and I resent the hell out of him for it. 

The worst of it all is that I still love him.  My husband still turns me on, and really deep down, buried under all the deception and lies, I still feel like things could be different if I could just teach him how to love me back.  Some days, when he calls me to his office and makes love to me tenderly in the sunshine that falls across his desk, I think that I've succeeded--that there is still hope for us to be what we once were.

I know.  I can't help it. 

I'm a head case.

The shame I feel every time I leave Claudia's estate with her husband's smell rubbed all over me, doesn't matter in this moment and he knows it.  He's got me.  Again.

He repeats in a soft plead, "You need me, don't you, Lyddle?"

I take a deep breath.   

"I'm still your husband," he says.

"You should tell
her
that.  And you should sign the divorce papers."  My voice is pitiful, a whine at best.  I'm drowning in him again.  I've lost every friend I've had because they see me go through this rotating door with Des, thinking only that he's a married man and I'm his mistress, and over time, they get tired of my complaining.  They grow disgusted when I won't end my misery and I can't say that I blame them. 

But standing here with him, I can only think of my husband and how I want him to be what he promised he would on the day we were married.  I try to swallow, but his scent and his fingers, pressing against my waist, shut down my most important sense--my common sense.  It's just me and Des again, standing on the rolling grounds of this palatial estate.  And all I can think of is having my husband, this horrible addiction of a man, moving between my legs, loving
me
instead of his other wife.

"You know I'll tell Claudia the second that the time is right," he says.  It breaks my heart to hear him lie.  The right time hasn't happened in the last two years.

"If you give me a divorce, you'll never have to tell her anything," I say.  He steps away.  I sway toward him and have to catch myself.

"And how would you live, then, Lyddle?  You think I'd let you go homeless?  Become a whore?"

"I'm a whore already."

Des's eyes go to granite and then, he takes the crook of my elbow in his steely grip.  He turns me toward the front of the house and raises a finger, drawing a sharp slash across the roof line, as if he's explaining something to me. 

He's going to fuck me and this is part of the game.  It's how he'll lead me upstairs to his home office to finalize details.  We'll make a big show and he'll have shutters or gutters or shingles installed by some side contractors next week to make this 'meeting' legit, in case
the help
really is watching.  It's been years and no one's ever spilled the beans yet, but even if the employees see us so close to one another, I doubt they would tell Claudia and if they did, I doubt that she'd believe them.