Stronger (3 page)

She believes I'm their talented designer.  That's how I got tangled up in this mess in the beginning and how I'm entrenched now.  Claudia loves what I don't really do with the place, because Des says he loves it.  She's at ease with me because I ignore Des when she's around, and I've really sold her on how faithful I am to my own husband and our marriage.  She just hasn't figured out that we're married to the same skunk.  

Des's finger stops at the corner window of the roof.  He turns back to me, his gaze so intense that the burn races through me like a forest fire. 

"Let's go to my office," he says with a disapproving frown.  He leans in close, his lips near my ear and his warm breath tingling against my skin.  "I'm going to spank you for what you said to me and then I'm going to tie you to the feet of my desk and my couch in that room today, Lyddle.   I'm going to stretch you wide open on the floor.  And then, I'm going to screw you so hard, you're going to remember that you don't speak to me like that ever again.  I'm not signing any fucking papers.  You will never sell your body to any man.  You're damn right that I'm your husband and you better get it straight that you will always belong to me.  And if I hear one peep out of you, during anything I do to you today, I'll send you home so red, you won't be able to sit your ass down in the cab.  Do you understand me?"

His eyes flash as he moves away from me.  He's getting off on it even more than I am.  Our sick little game Tasers the hot, aching button between my legs.  Des moves his face back an inch, so his eyes are riveted on mine and it steals any sarcastic response I could give him.  All I want is my husband, the disease of him, thrust into my body.  His arms around me as he fills me up and makes me feel whole again.  I want him more than I want my pride.

"Follow me," he growls.  He turns away sharply and walks up the steps to the ornate front doors of the house. 

I follow the spider, right to the center of his web.

<<<<>>>>

The cab ride home is the same as always.  The scraps of my panties are at the bottom of my portfolio case.  My make-up has been carefully re-applied, although there is a layer of sweat and bruising just beneath it, and there is a nice roll of cash stashed in my empty travel mug. 

I try to fill myself back up again, staring out the window while I tell myself that, I can make this mug-money stretch until I find a job somewhere.  I can file the papers myself.  I don't ever have to go see Des again.  But I already know it's a lie, because I want it to be one. 

I have fantasies of never going back, of never feeling like this again, but then he calls.  Sometimes I go because I could use the money.  Sometimes it's because I remember who we were and what we had.  Sometimes, like today, I really think I'm going to go and finish it for good.  But every single time, the outcome is just an echo of all the times before it.  I cave.  And just like every other cab ride home, I swear I won't do it again.

I pay the cabbie before sliding on my sunglasses and stiffly exiting the cab.  My rear is on fire as I drag my portfolio from the back seat.  I doubt it would be any easier to walk in ballet flats, but walking in stilettos is absolute hell. 

When I step through the front doors of the lobby, I stifle a groan.  Less from my sore rear end and more because Aidan is standing only feet away, with his back to me, checking his mailbox.  I am not prepared for a conversation right now.  I need to get a few drinks in me first.

I have to slide by him without being noticed, which is impossible.  He's between me and the elevator.  He turns as the outside door wafts shut behind me.

"Hi," he says over one shoulder with a smile.  He slips the key from his mailbox lock.

"Hi," I say.  I try to glide as smoothly as I can to the elevator doors, but I feel his eyes following me, assessing my movement.  Dignity and grace are nearly impossible to accomplish with an aching ass.

"Can I help you carry up your case?" he asks, and before I can pass on his offer, his warm hand encases mine.  He takes the portfolio from me.  I only hope to God it doesn't drop open and spill my ravaged panties.  I force my gaze off of the guilty portfolio and focus instead on the doors sliding open and stepping inside.  I try not to wince as Aidan presses the button for our floor.  The lift jerks upward and I try to hide my wince.  Aidan takes it all in.  I can almost see him debating whether or not to ask what's going on with me.  I keep my eyes averted, so as to discourage any questioning, and we ride up in silence.

When the doors open, I pause, hoping Aidan will step out first, but he picks a lousy day to be a gentleman.  He extends an arm for me to go first and I focus on keeping my stride steady.  This is the way it is sometimes, but usually it's no big deal because no one is around to notice.

We make it all the way to my door, before he asks, "Are you alright, Lydia?"

I flash him a smile.  I don't wait for a response as I fish my keys out of my bag and open my apartment door.

"Perfect." I say, taking the portfolio from him.  I am careful not to touch his skin.  "Thanks for the help."

"No problem.  I'll bring your wrench back later, if that's okay?"

"Sure,"  I flash him another smile, probably too stiff this time, because I can't go beating the drums right now.  Not the way my body is aching. 

Aidan cocks his head and returns a questioning smile as I close the door on him.  I don't want to be rude, but I need a very hot bath and a very tall drink, to soothe my pride.

<<<<>>>>

It's like there is a green light hanging over my apartment door, because the moment I'm out of the tub, still feeling tenderized but relaxed, Aidan is at my door again.  I answer, wrapped in my robe and he holds up the wrench, his eyes sweeping over me.

"Yours," he says, but I don't take it.

"It's not mine, actually.  Someone just left it here.  You can keep it, if you like."

"I've got one of my own, someplace.  In one of my moving boxes."  He holds out the wrench again, but it's greasy.  I swing open the door instead.

"If you can put it beneath the sink, then maybe I'll remember it's there the next time a neighbor asks for one."

Aidan steps into the room.  I feel his body, even though it doesn't touch mine, as he passes by me.

"No problem," he says as he walks into the kitchen.  Over his shoulder, he asks,  "So, does it happen often?"

His tone is curious, almost concerned, and it throws me off. 

"Does what happen?" I ask.  Aidan slides the wrench into the cupboard.  I notice him noticing the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, and it's twin from this morning, in the trash.  He turns back to me.   Checking me out doesn't make me feel vulnerable, but knowing that he just eyed the evidence of my binge, does.  He smirks.

"Do neighbors often come looking for tools?" he says. 

"Not often.  But Mrs. Lowt, from 2C across the hall?  She comes looking for men, so you should know, you're not safe on this floor." I cross the room and, as nonchalantly as I can, put the whiskey bottle back up in the cupboard and smash the other down into the trash can so the lid will close on it. 

"Mrs. Lowt...you mean the lady across the hall, with the glasses," Aidan says.  He watches me move.  "I've met her.  She's already acquainted herself with my left thigh."  I feel his gaze, like static, prickling over my body.  "Does your, uh...work...call you out a lot on the weekend?" 

"Sometimes."

"I don't think you mentioned what it is you do?"

"Design.  Art and design," I say.  "Home decor."

"Hmm.  Interior or exterior?"

"Both." His eyebrows hike a little.

"Both," he repeats, dipping his chin as he says it.  Then,  "Does it always make you move like that?"

The first thing that flares up in my head is to tell him to mind his own business, but the softness of his tone--the concern is soothing and it makes putty out of my defenses.

"Sometimes," I say.  And then, to stop the interrogation, I add, "Only when I stop at the gym after."

That does it.  His brow is restored, and I'm pretty sure I'm off the hook, until he says, "You work out in a suit?"

Caught.  No gym bag. 

I smile and say, "I keep my things in a locker there."

Aidan's smile flickers. 

"Well, I should get going," he says.  I don't stop him as he walks to the door.  The one solid pleasure of this afternoon is in taking in every step and every inch of him from behind.  He's got an easy stride, so different from Desmond's swagger.  Aidan's jeans are faded and soft-looking, just like his shirt.  It was probably a bright, crimson color once.  Now, it's faded to a soft red.  While Aidan's clothing tells me that he's easy-going and hands-on, his rear end says that Mrs. Lowt is going to be after him more often than he thinks.

He pauses near the door.  Since my eyes aren't where they're supposed to be, I almost flatten my face against his chest.  He smiles as I take a step back.

"If you ever need anything, Lydia," he says, stepping into the hall, "I'm right next door.  You're always welcome to come by."

The tacky comebacks pop into my head. 
You're good with your hands...wanna check out my plumbing?  I want to check out your tool belt.  Maybe you could drill a hole for me.  I have some holes that need filling...
but I'm not that kind of a comeback girl.  And besides, he's a neighbor.  And my ass is still throbbing.  If I caved, there would be no explaining the welts on my rear end. 

"Thanks," I say, leaning on the door.  His eyes slip down the front of me, as Mrs. Lowt's door opens.  She steps into the hall, glimpsing me before she refocuses on Aidan.  She doesn't take her eyes off him as she says, "Lydia, your chest is showing."

I reach down and sure enough, my robe is open, exposing half of my left breast.  I pull my robe shut and wiggle a
bad boy
finger at Aidan.  He grins, but tears his eyes away as Mrs. Lowt advances on him.

"And how are you, Mr. Badeau?" she murmurs, with a sly grin.  She pours herself into his personal space, her pink scalp glaring through the rows of her curlers.  Paired with her magnifying-glass eyewear, she looks a little terrifying as she flutters her lashes and licks her lips.  "It's always nice seeing my neighbors."

I almost giggle as he squirms a step backward. It's either that, or she'll fall on him.  "Thank you, Mrs. Lowt.  And how are you today?" 

"Better, now," she purrs.  She closes the gap again.  Aidan leans back as she leans in.  I just stay rooted in my doorway, enjoying the show.  I'm not going to save him from her today.  He deserves it, since he got an eyeful of my chest without mentioning it.

"I'm glad you're doing well," Aidan says, with another desperate glance in my direction.  I smile at him.  Mrs. Lowt leans closer.

"I could be better," she reaches for his lower thigh.

"Oh!" Aidan yelps as she pinches him.  I hide my laugh behind my hand as Aidan scoots away.  Mrs. Lowt turns her attention back to me.

"You shouldn't run around half dressed, Lydia," she scolds.  "Not with men like this--virile men, full of needs--running around our hallways..."

I think Aidan's going to scream.  Mrs. Lowt takes another step toward him and he trips backward, until he reaches his door.

"Well, have a good day, Mrs. Lowt.  And have fun, Aidan."  He shoots me a horrified glance as I close my door on them.

CHAPTER FOUR

FLINGS ARE GOOD FOR THE SKIN

This one is wild and I name him George, even though his real name is Tony or something like that.  He's a tattoo artist, and the first time he drove me home and came up for a drink, he pulled out his kit to prove it.  I thought he meant it as foreplay when he said he'd like to tattoo me at the bar, but when I agreed, he popped out his gun--his actual tattoo gun.

"What do you want?" he asked.  He didn't bother putting on gloves.

"How about coloring in the lotus on my arm?  You do color?"

"Yeah, but don't you want something original?"

"That will make it original." 

I got us drinks, but even after I'd emptied my glass and started on his, George was still all business on my arm.
  I squinted down at his work.  "Oh wait...you're making it pink?"

"Yeah.
  You're a girl, I thought you'd like it, baby."

"I
am
pink," I said with a smile around the glass I'd poured for him, "but I
like
red."

George smirked, but didn't stop working away on my arm.  "Did you know, pink is actually a much stronger color?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Red is vicious.  It's a fierce color--it's all about anger and fury and explosion.  But pink, pink symbolizes change.  It mixes the anger of red with the patience, balance and control of white.  Anger plus balance equals change.  Very powerful shit."

He leaned back to admire his work.  Pink lotus, green leaves.  I didn't bother to ask him what hippie bullshit green triggered for him.  George had gorgeous brown eyes and lips that I couldn't help but imagine on my nipples.

"I'm a powerful bitch," I told him.  "Are you ever going to kiss me?"

He dropped his gun and his pants.

The thing about George is that he made me laugh and he was not phenomenal, but decent at the talk--and by 'the talk', I mean that he was good at murmuring his appreciation about my body in a voice that made me want more. 

George was a surprise, after all his singular focus on inking me that first night--he turned out to be exceptionally good in bed.  He knows the game and has mastered how to play it.  This kind of man is my favorite, because he's good at what he does, doesn't spend the night, and leaves me with plenty of moments to replay in my head the next day. 

But, this kind of man is also a drug.  He's so good, he should be classified as a narcotic, but I've only got three dates to spend with him and this is our last.  He took me for dinner and we brought dessert and wine back to my place.  We've been taking turns wearing whip cream underwear, but as I'm nestled between George's legs, it sinks in that this is our last date. 

I even consider breaking my ultimate three-date rule and squeaking George in for a fourth, but I know I won't.  I hate the thought of the buzz wearing off and the moment down the line when George will insist I call him by his real name.  When that happens, he'll want me to meet his friends or, worse, his family.  Knowing that we can't just remain what we are now--people who mess up each other's hair between the sheets--is a little sad.

I sink my teeth into his thigh.  Nothing vicious or
red
about it, just a good love nip.  George groans his appreciation.  I'm going to miss him.

I think of how much I'll miss George, as he shakes the whip can and flips me over, squirting rosettes on my nipples.  The cold blast makes them rise and one of the rosettes tips over.  George catches it and the sudden warmth of his mouth dissolves me.  He trails his tongue down my belly.  Damn.  Yes, this has to be the last date.

"I can't get enough of you," he murmurs between my legs.  I fist my hand into his hair.  George has got great hair too, thick and soft, the deep color of wet sand.  His mouth is ruining me, and then--

"Move in with me, Lydia," he breathes across my thigh.  "I want to wake up with you every morning."

His puff of words extinguishes the heat between my legs.  I pull my hand out of his hair. 

Dammit
.  I knew this was going to happen.  The sun is coming up and I should've made him leave hours ago.  I get out of bed and slip into my robe.

"Where are you going, babe?" George asks.

"To get a drink," I say. 

"Now?"

"I need it." 

He leans back on the pillows, smiling at me.  He fills his mouth with a shot of whip cream.

"Hurry back," he says through the whip goop.  I return with vodka on the rocks--God knows I'm going to need it-- and George rattles the whip bottle in midair.  "Vodka cream?"

"Sorry,"  I tell him.  "I didn't realize the time.  I've got to get ready for work." 

"It's Saturday.  What do you do?"

"Design," I say.  "I've got a client meeting.  I forgot all about it."

He doesn't move.  All he does is smile, fill his mouth with another shot of whip and say, "I want to watch you get dressed, babe.  I like being the only one who gets to see what's underneath your clothes."

Oh no.  I expected a lot better out of George.  I expected, the moment I heard his incredible sex voice, that I'd be just one of his belt notches.  That first night, I assumed he'd even totter off in the early morning, feeling a little guilty and hoping to God that I'd never call the wrong number he'd leave on the table.  But he didn't leave a wrong number.  He left in the middle of the night, but took my number with him.  I certainly didn't expect a roommate-with-benefits proposal and sure as hell wasn't looking for any exclusive arrangements on who gets to view my delicates.  I thought he was way more of a player than this.

"I'm in kind of a hurry," I say, but he stretches across the bed, reaching for me.

"Slow down, baby," he says, making a grab for my wrist when I don't reach back.  He tries to do the playful thing and pull me back to him, but I hold my ground as if I have hooks in my heels, embedded in the carpet.  "Slow down and be with me."

I let him draw me in since he's not letting go.  He takes what I know is our final kiss, and then I whisper, "I really need to get out of here."

He lets go, but instead of getting out of bed, he settles back on the pillows.  This is going to be a rough Band-Aid to yank off.

So, I escape. 

I go to the kitchen, pour myself a tall travel mug of Jack with a splash of coffee, and skitter to the front door, still in my robe.  I unlatch it as quietly as I can and let myself out on tiptoes, closing it quietly behind me.  I rap softly on Aidan's door.

When Aidan doesn't answer, I take the chance and rap a little louder.  George's muffled shout comes from my apartment, "Is that your door, baby?"

Aidan's footsteps approach his door and he opens it right up, no chain lock.  He's wearing shorts, no shirt, no shoes, and he's glistening with sweat.  His gaze rolls over my robe.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I whisper. "Do you have any coffee made?  I'm out and I could really use some this morning."

"Sure," he steps aside and I slip past him quickly.  George has started searching for me in my apartment, calling, "Babe? Baby? Where you at, babe?"

Aidan cocks his head to the side with a smirk as he closes his door.  I go into his kitchen and move a box marked
dishes
out of the way, so I can get at his coffee maker.  Aidan leans on the wall, arms over his chest as I add a splash to my full cup.  I snap the lid back on and take a warming sip.

"I thought you'd be unpacked by now," I say. 

"I'm slow when it comes to unpacking...
babe
," he smirks.  Aidan's right--George has a classic case of over-babeing.  I smile over the rim of my cup and take another sip.

"Babe?" George calls again. 

"And some people are really slow at moving out," I whisper to Aidan with a wink. 

There is a commotion next door, muted through the walls, but it's still easy to make out George's fury, "What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK, BABE?"

"These walls aren't as thick as they should be," I whisper again as I move away, into Aidan's living room.  His furniture is dark brown leather, his coffee table is square, glass.  A corner of his living room is still stacked with boxes.  The place screams
bachelor
and it's so sad that I can never even have a sample bite of this man.  It's taking him so long to move in and unpack his junk that things could go miserable between us and it would take him years to move out.  That kind of thing makes for a huge headache that I don't need.  But man, do I wish I did.

"What were you doing, before I showed up?" I ask softly, taking a seat on his couch.  He drops onto his chair. 

"Working out." Our voices are nothing but murmurs as George's ranting continues to escalate next door.  Aidan motions to a thing like a crowbar that is wedged in the doorframe of his bedroom.  Chin ups.  Looking at his arms, it's obvious that he does them a lot.  "How about you...
babe
?  What were you doing?"

"Very funny," I say as George stomps across the floor in my apartment.  Something shatters and I wince.  "I hope that wasn't my full-length mirror.  It'll be almost impossible to get ready without it."

Another crash.  If the last one wasn't my mirror, this one is.

"Do you want me to escort your friend out?" Aidan offers, but I shake my head.  Another crash.  Another.  A million crashes, one after another.

"I deserve to have a few things broken," I say.  I take another long sip from my mug. 

"Do you?" Aidan asks. 

Everything is silent for a minute before the door to my apartment squeaks open and slams shut.  George's voice in the hallway is so clear that I startle on the couch as he shouts, "THANKS A LOT, BABE!  THANKS A FUCKING LOT FOR SKIPPING OUT!"

Aidan and I freeze as we hear the squeak of Mrs. Lowt's door.  Her muffled voice drifts in, "Who are you?  You one of Lydia's?  Listen, if you have a problem, you come in here.  Yes, come!  You can come tell me all your problems."

"Are you...what?  You're ALL NUTS!" George hollers and he stomps off down the hall. 

Mrs. Lowt calls after him, "Stop shouting!  You want the police to come?"

I look back at Aidan.  

"Sooo," he says.  "He didn't sound too happy, babe."

"No, he didn't."

"That couldn't be your
boyfriend
," he reasons.  "You said you were married...but I get the feeling he's not your husband either."

"He was just a friend."

"Do all your friends stay the night?"

I smile over the rim of my mug.  "Some of them."

"It sounds like you don't stay friends though."

"Usually not.  It gets too complicated."

"Why was he so upset?"

I shrug.

"Did he misplace his wallet or something like that?"  Aidan asks.  I lower my mug.  Now he's going too far.  I glare from my seat on his couch.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing...I--"

"What do you think I am, Aidan?" I sit back and take him in.  "Because you keep suggesting that I'm a thief...or a whore."

"I'd never suggest anything like that."

It's not surprising that he'd try to back out of it.  I've never met a man that would say it in polite conversation.  I think it's because they figure it could ruin their chances if it's true.  The only time
whore
really gets used is when they realize they have no chance at all.  Then, they splattered all over the conversation like a volcano burping lava. 

However, what's unnerving is that Aidan isn't jumping to his feet to defend himself or to attack me for calling him out.  I'm used to a lot more rage from men that disagree, but Aidan is keeping his tone soft, as if George is still trying to locate me.

"If you'd never suggest it, then what are you saying?" I ask.

"I was only curious about why you're hiding from your
friend
in my apartment.  And why you are sitting on my couch while your abandoned
friend
is essentially being fed to Mrs. Lowt."

I take a sip from my travel mug, weighing lies against the truth.  I decide to tell him the real deal, since I can never have even one date with him anyway.

"I have a three date rule," I confide with a shrug. "This was his last date and he wasn't going easy.  Since you said if I ever needed anything you were right next door, well, this morning I needed to disappear.  So, thank you."

I rise off the couch, clutching the terry cloth lapels of my robe to my chest so we don't have another wardrobe malfunction.  Aidan is my neighbor and my new friend that may be able to save me on occasion, and in his rugged, man apartment, I see the necessity in keeping him just that.  He can be my personal bouncer and body guard, but it won't help to keep the lines drawn in this arrangement if my boobs keep falling out.  My malfunctions have to be intentional, just like everyone else's.

"I'll come back with you," he says as he gets to his feet. "Let's make sure that your friend is gone."