Survival of the Fiercest (17 page)

“You’re my guest.”

“Is that all I am?” he asks.

“Well, you’re my special guest,” I say with a smirk.

The corners of his lips turn up. “If this is you putting in your girlfriend application, you’re hired.”

“Oh, I have to apply for the position?” I ask with faux attitude and hand him a plate. I fill both mugs with coffee.

“Well, I was already impressed with your résumé, but this is a deal maker.”

Handing him his mug, I chuckle. “Really? I think I should have a say in this. Did you put in your boyfriend application? Because I haven’t seen it.”

Setting his overflowing plate on the island, he settles on a barstool opposite me. “Yeah, I put it in last night, when you screamed my name.” He expertly catches the hand towel I throw at him and sets it aside.

“I didn’t scream your name,” I say matter-of-factly, jabbing my fork into my food.

“You did.” He nods.

“I don’t scream.”

“You do.”

“Shut up,” I say, pointing a slice of bacon at him.

“I like it, though.”

“I said shut it.”

He shrugs and sips his coffee, looking at me over the mug.

“I know the Soho Grand is pretty fancy, but they don’t have this spread,” I say, waving a hand over the counter. “You could stay here, you know.”

“I’d like that.” A smile plays on his lips.

“Good,” I say, admiring his upper body a little too long. The thought of last night stretching into several nights makes my pulse jump. I shove a huge bite of omelet into my mouth, then rummage through a small drawer in the large wood secretary against the wall.

“Here, you can come and go as you please.” I place a key ring beside his plate.

Before I can walk back to my plate, he stands and pulls me to his chest. “Did I thank you for breakfast?”

I shake my head, and my heart beats faster when he steals a kiss. We finish eating, have a satisfying bout of morning sex, and then shower together.

Evan is in his clothes from the night before, reading the paper, when I emerge from the bedroom in a black body-hugging sweaterdress that stops mid-calf, and a pair of leopard booties. With my hair back in a ponytail and a little color on my lips, I look Sophia Loren chic. It’s possible I’m overdressed for a Saturday morning, but I don’t care. Today I have someone to walk hand ’n hand with.

Soon we are on that street, walking hands clasped, down West Broadway toward the Soho Grand. It is a brisk, sunny day without a cloud in sight. Couples pass us, and I revel in the fact that I am one of them.

We check Evan out of the hotel, and he insists on slinging his leather duffel over his shoulder. I like that he doesn’t have a huge roller bag, that he only brought essentials and a few basic toiletries like a guy’s guy should.

We window-shop on the way home, stopping briefly in front of an empty commercial space for lease. Evan’s eyes narrow, and his jaw tics like he’s adding something up in his head. Whipping out his phone, he saves the number.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“That’s a nice space for a gallery,” he says.

“Another one? Here?”

He shrugs and smiles. “Maybe.”

As we continue walking, my head swims with fantasies of him living in New York. I push a Reset button on my brain. When it revs back up again, Evan and I are stopped in front of a tantalizing window display at Wolford. A picture of slim legs covered in sheer white thigh-high hosiery and black heels dominates the window. A series of tiny silver bows runs from foot to thigh.

Evan pulls me into his side and leans to my ear. “Wear these for me tonight.”

I look at him. “Don’t be crazy. I bet those are about two hundred bucks.”

He dips his head to look at my legs, then my ass. I slap him playfully.

“Let’s get some garters too.” He winks and walks inside.

My first reaction is to stop him from wasting his money. But I secretly can’t wait to put them on. We exit the shop minutes later with a small bag of goodies. The white-and-silver bag with pink tissue paper dangles from my fingers as we stroll home.

Evan stashes his duffel in my room, hangs his few items of clothes, and puts his grooming kit in the bathroom. It’s cute how neat he is. His clothes are hung small to large, and his toiletries are arranged in a geometric pattern. While his back is turned, I straighten up my overflowing magazine rack and shove my dirty clothes pile on the floor into my laundry bag.

When he’s done moving in, we lounge on the couch and touch and talk and touch. He tells me how the club is doing, what celebrities have been going, how Jared is thinking of starting a business. We talk about the gallery and how he’s been contacted by artists from Europe and Latin America who want to have shows.

“It’s getting bigger than I expected,” he says, his eyes alight.

We cuddle on the couch for another hour before we both feel the need to do a little work. Evan calls the number of the commercial space we saw. He spends hours on the phone, planning and negotiating with the broker. Watching him, I realize why Evan has gotten so successful. He’s a doer. He doesn’t hesitate to explore options nor does he second-guess himself. If there is any time in my life that I need to be this way, it’s now.

While Evan changes, I lie on the bed and watch him fix his hair in the mirror. A comb here, a tweak there, done. Guys are so lucky. He wants me to come with him, but I need to do some work, right after I get my nails done. And a wax!

“So what do you want to do tonight?” his reflection asks.

“How about a casual dinner? My favorite Mexican place is a few blocks away. They have the best tacos and margaritas in the city; maybe even better than your taco spot,” I challenge.

“Whoa. Those are fighting words.”

“Well, my tacos are ready to take on your tacos.”

“Will you be wearing this dress?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He grins. “Show me your tacos.”

At the door, we have a searing kiss. Then I head to the salon.

An hour later, I’m writing a post and pause to stare at my fingers over the laptop keys. I chose lime-green nail polish, which really pops with my black dress. It’s a fun, edgy look. I hope Evan likes it; then I fem-slap myself. The feminist in me says I should do these things because I like it, not for him. But seeing the way he was in Wolford makes me think that doing these things for him will be very rewarding. It makes me feel girly, and I haven’t felt girly in a long time.

My gaze snakes to the Wolford bag sitting on the counter. I have a mind to put on the hosiery, garters, and matching bra, spread myself out on the bed, and text him to come home. Suddenly I’m all about being a receptacle for pleasure—Evan’s pleasure. Never have I been like this; not even with my ex-husband.

Shaking my head, I go back to writing, but my mind wanders from our lovemaking this morning to anticipation of dinner and getting it on later. He looked so cute this morning, eating the breakfast I made. I could get used to that. Not the making-breakfast part, I tell my inner feminist, but someone special in my life who shows concern for me, challenges me, and makes me feel beautiful. Evan is different from me, but he gets me, supports me. I feel whole, strong, and ready to take on anything.

“Tina?” I ask after she picks up on the first ring. “I need a list of our advertisers.”

Chapter Twenty

At the restaurant, Evan and I sit side by side at the corner of a wood communal table, our space littered with taco plates and empty margarita glasses as we have made our way through the entire taco menu.

“Now try this one.” I hold up a taco for Evan, and he bites into the end, nodding after a few chews. He washes it down with a jalapeño margarita.

“Okay, that’s good.”

“It’s calamari. My favorite,” I say before biting into the same taco. Swallowing the remnants of my second margarita, I savor the burn, and the sexy way it’s making me feel.

Evan smiles when I lick my lips. “It’s vicious when you do that.” His hand winds around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a slow jalapeño-laced kiss. When we unlock ourselves, another round has appeared. Evan gives a thank-you nod to the smiling waitress, who answers with a wink.

“I think she wants you to get lucky tonight,” I tease.

“I’ll take all the help I can get. Drink up.” We clinked glasses, looking into each other’s eyes for good luck, and take a swig of the delicious concoction. Evan holds up another taco for me, nodding appreciatively when I lean in and fit my mouth around the tip. Swallowing, I wipe my lips and giggle at his suggestive look.

“I have a lot of fun with you,” he says, suddenly turning serious.

“Me too.”

“What if I told you I could be in New York more often?”

“I’d say good.”

“That’s it?”

“What does you being in New York more often mean?” My face is hot, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t had so much to drink.

“Means we could see each other…regularly.”

“How often is that?”

He shrugs. “Two weeks out of the month?”

“That’s more irregular than regular.”

Evan sighs at my snarky joke. “I just don’t want to leave here and never see you again.”

I blink. I don’t want that either. All my fantasies are slipping away and smashing to smithereens on the floor. His life is in San Francisco. “Let’s shelve this for now. Okay? Please?”

He stares at me for a long moment. “For now.”

After dinner, we stroll, hands clasped, through Tribeca, toying with the idea of going to a lounge but ultimately deciding to head home.

We are kissing on my couch, followed by the rising of my dress and the unzipping and unbuttoning of his clothing, which is impossible on such a small surface, but our laughter makes it all the more sensual. Half-clothed, we are about to fuck like teenagers when Evan’s phone starts buzzing from a succession of text messages on the coffee table. I am selfishly ignoring any outside distractions, so is he, but with a quick glimpse I catch a text from Tone that says:
Call me.

Alarmed, I urge him to take the call and slip into the kitchen to pour us both a glass of wine. It’s tough not to eavesdrop, especially when Evan’s voice begins to get a hard edge. He’s not upset with Tone, but something is making him angry. I place the wineglass by his hand, and he takes a large swig. With his phone to his ear, he gives me a quick kiss, then he starts to pace. I sink into the couch and sip my wine.

“I haven’t checked my office voice mail. Was anything taken? Are you sure?” Evan barks. He shakes his head “I’m not sure I can get one out tonight.”

Overhearing him, I glance up. Evan is standing, hand on hip, with a pained expression on his face.

“I’ll try in the morning. I’ll text you when I land.”

Evan lets out a heavy sigh and turns to me. “There was a break-in at the gallery.”

“Oh no. Was anything taken?”

“I guess not, but the police said the lock on the entrance to the club was tampered with.” For the next several minutes, Evan checks his voice mail. Then he calls the police, followed by his club managers, who he asks to double-check everything. With a curse, he gets off the phone and tosses it onto the coffee table. “There isn’t much else I can do tonight,” he says, frustrated.

“You have to go,” I state.

“I have to go. I don’t want to.” The top two buttons of his shirt are open, exposing a sliver of skin that I long to snuggle into.

“I know,” I murmur.

“Come with me.”

“You know I can’t,” I say with a rueful smile. “You can always come back, you know.”

His lips find my cheek, and he hugs me tighter. I lean into his chest, wondering if this is a glimpse of what a long-distance relationship with him would be like—frequent absences and short nights together.

Evan books a flight at five the next morning. His bags are packed, and he lays his travel clothes out on the dresser, right next to the Wolford bag. I’m lying on the bed when he fingers the fuchsia tissue paper and starts drawing the hose from the bag in a long shimmery stream. “Let me help you put these on.” His eyes sparkle.

Hopping off the bed, I grab the bag and hug it to my body. “We have to be up in two hours.”

“That’s plenty of time to—”

“No, you’ll have to come back to play with them.”

Okay, but…” He holds up the slinky white ribbon. “Just this one?”

I find an oversize gray sweater, slip the silky hose on, and walk into the bedroom in my black heels. I feel like the lead in
Chicago
and do a little shimmy, showing off the silver bows running up my legs. Raising my arms, I fluff my hair, which lifts the hem of my sweater to show my pièce de résistance—no panties. He stalks toward me with that possessive look in his eye. Before I know it, I’m sprawled on the bed with his head between my legs. We don’t sleep.

* * * *

I’m like a zombie when I make breakfast, and Evan is ravenous. He hunches over his plate while he eats, and I try to memorize him this way. Then he is gone. Suddenly, it’s colder and quieter. Wide awake now, I go into the kitchen and sit on his stool, picking at what’s left on his plate. A small pile of blackberries is off to the side. It occurs to me that he might not like berries, but I don’t know. I need to know. I need to feel like we could have a shot. I text him.

You don’t like blackberries?

With each pop of the little black gems into my mouth, I glance at my phone. No response. The text comes through as I am having lunch and poring over the new business books I recently bought.

I’m allergic. I’ll call you later. Miss you already. X.

Aww, he’s allergic. That’s so cute. Somehow, knowing this makes me feel closer to him, and yet the feeling that our relationship won’t last tugs at me. I bat it away. Instead I focus on a future I can control—Fierce’s.

Tina gave me the list of our advertisers but warned me that they will want to see current statistics. Everyone has heard what went down with Viper. I need to show our former partners that Fierce is still going strong.

I have been researching my revenue options. Really I just need to keep one big advertiser, but I also need to keep my page views up, because I’m paid per click. Checking my stats, I’m worried when I see a downward sloping bar chart from a few weeks ago to today. It’s because my posts have dwindled. Going from three people to one has decreased my clickable content. I need to work faster, aggregate more stories, and create a better schedule so I can emulate three people. My fingers fly over the keys.