The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (6 page)

"Have you been having any fantasies lately about suicide?"

"No, not anymore." I said. Then I admitted in a quiet voice, "Other type of fantasies, though."

She smiled.

I need to stop here and mention the name of my therapist: Christian Gray. With an "a" in Gray. And she's a woman. She was a lightly plump, elegant African-American, with bright eyes.  Nevertheless, it made me giggle to no end to put a date with Christian Gray on my calendar each week.   Not that I had read
That Book
.
That Book
was for other people, not me. I read Shakespeare. Well, that and the six books that I had downloaded on my e-reader. But I digress.

Something that I had learned from my therapy sessions over the past year was that a definition of depression was "anger turned inward." Perhaps.  Before, I didn't even know that I was angry: Angry at my ex. Angry at God. Angry for what I had lost. Angry for the way my life was turning out.  Angry at wasting my time feeling guilty or depressed about things that were part of my upbringing or environment, but were not who I really was.  I was moving past all of those things.  Now that I had processed some of the anger, it had opened me up to being able to feel other things.  Therapy also helped me realize that the depression was not my fault, which was something easy to say, but not easy to believe.  Nevertheless, as I talked with my therapist about the guilt that I felt about my sexuality, I knew that I had a lot more to do.  Including a few more homework items before I went to trial the next day.

After I left my therapist and drove to my next appointment, I wondered if I’d ever see Ryan again. All I needed to do was go to the coffee shop and see him. I wondered if I could just take him behind the counter and have my way with him. He didn't seem like he’d mind.

It's funny. As a lawyer, advocating for my clients, I was used to being cocky, saying my mind, and arguing. But when it came to myself, I could be shy and often I wouldn’t ask for what I wanted. I needed to work up the nerve to see Ryan again—and then to be brave enough to actually talk with him and be myself with him. And then I wanted to see where it would go.

"YEEEE-OWWWWWWW!!!!!"

I could taste blood in my mouth.

That
HURT
.
Fuck
!

I sat, no, lay on my back in a small, white room at a salon. I wore nothing under my belly button, and the bottoms of my feet pressed together so that I looked like a frog.  Yeah, I felt exposed.  And holy hell, that hurt like a mother.

Thankfully, the friendly, but no-nonsense, attendant made this completely surreal situation bearable. She merrily told me that she had done this to all of her friends.  So she didn't have issues about ripping the hair off of a hoo-ha or anywhere else down there. I didn't even know you could get hair in some of those places. I guess I’d never explored those parts.

Now that I thought about it, it was pretty funny that I had yelled so loud. I was normally a quiet, retiring sort of girl.

Well, sometimes.

But after a few more applications of warm wax, a few more rips, and a dash of a spray, she deemed me fit for consumption—so to speak.

I hastily put on my panties and pants and shoes and felt very, very funny in that sensitive area. It was now an ultra-sensitive area. Smooth, waxed, and ready. Now I needed to walk out of here and face the receptionist and pay.  Funny how that embarrassed me. Like, uh-oh, she knows what I did.

I found myself signing up for a year's worth of waxing.

As I made my way to my car, I passed a lingerie shop that I noticed on the way in.

What the hell
, I thought.
Might as well do that too
.

I normally wore matching bras and panties, but nothing special. I usually shopped for underwear in nude, white, or black, and it certainly was nothing that I wanted to be photographed in for a boudoir shot.

But when I walked in the store, the beautiful red satin, black lace over cream, and turquoise lingerie struck me as something necessary to living.

The saleslady, who must have been about seventy years old, and looked tough as nails, said, "Need some help?" She scared me a little bit. Still. Onward.

"Uh, yeah." I was loquacious with her too.

"Have you been measured lately?" she asked briskly.

"Uh, no."

"Let's get you in here."

She pushed me into an elegant, but tiny room to change in, and climbed in there with me, seriously invading my personal space. Before I knew it, she poked, prodded, and announced my bra size. "Honey, I've been doing this so long I don't need a measuring tape. I'll be back, wait here."

I waited for just a moment, and she returned, loaded down with gorgeous bras, and gave me one to try on.

She stepped out, I put it on, and opened the curtain tentatively to show her. She came in and invaded my personal space again, by adjusting straps and the cups (hello, girls), and then she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"That's lovely, dear."

I looked in the mirror. She was right.

A lavender bra, with underwire and lace, held me up in all the right places, and my girls were in there like little eggs in a nest. Or something. But it made me look … right. I looked sexy.

I wanted more.

"I'll take it," I said, and she gave me a pleased smile. "And the matching panties."

An hour later, I loaded up the trunk of my car with bags of pretty lingerie wrapped in tissue paper. I’d never owned so many pretty, lacy things. I treated myself to nice things sometimes, and dressed professionally, but I normally didn't go for the overtly sexy look. But these purchases were a treat just for me and were something that only I would know about.

And perhaps a certain surfer.

Trial

EARLY TUESDAY MORNING,
I drove my car back to Ventura, along the coast again.  This time Jake, my coworker and boss, took over the passenger seat. I was amazed that he’d asked me to drive since the fact that he was older than me, a partner, my boss, and male, would normally mean that he would pull rank and drive. Apparently he wanted to do research on his tablet, while we were driving the half hour or so to the courthouse.  Something as simple as driving had me thinking about feminism.  Guess it was just part of me.

We’d stuffed the trunk of my car with boxes of files, papers, and binders. Major butterflies hit above their weight class in my stomach, and I tried to ignore them. I also tried to clear my brain of all of the work-related anxiety I felt, as I drove and looked at the ocean and watched for pelicans.

We were headed to trial, finally.

Jake's tall, muscular body dominated my car's leather interior. I glanced at him and noticed that he was all spread out, long legs and body everywhere. Guys sometimes sat like they were invading conquerors.

Even though I didn't have a crush on Jake, I'd say it: it was hard to be with him in close proximity and remain professional, because he was such a hot distraction. He smelled
like a man
and was wearing a pristine suit and tie, his blue eyes glinting, his hair tousled but sober. Such a sexy physicality. I told myself that there was nothing wrong with ogling. I was just appreciating the art, people.

Okay, so maybe I was lying about the whole "I didn't have a crush on Jake" thing. Still, he was no Sun God.

With an energy completely unwelcome this early in the morning, he chattered the whole way about the trial, like a sexy, deep-voiced chipmunk. He lived for courtroom work. He wanted to be a statesman-like, Atticus Finch-type lawyer—at least before the second book was published and Atticus was reviled instead of revered. But I digress.

I wondered if he could talk about anything else. Well, it wasn't like I needed to see him at home over a dinner table, so it didn't really matter.

I struggled to listen to him, since I was still early-morning sleep-deprived. I needed coffee or else I was going to contemplate inflicting serious bodily harm on Jake Slausen, gift to women's eyeballs everywhere. He was probably a gift to gay men, too. To stop myself from plotting his destruction, I interrupted his discussion of the finer points of his opening statement.

"Jake, can we stop for coffee before we get there?"

"Sure, Amelia."

Of course a trip to get coffee would lead to an orbit around the Sun God—or at least a chance of being sucked into his tractor beam. I was ready for him.

Maybe.

Today I wore full lawyer badass gear, not fucking around this time. I donned the blue pinstripes and put my hair up in a chignon.  But while I was physically put together, I still needed to get my brain awake for trial. Must insert caffeine. I pulled into the parking lot at Southwinds and Jake unfolded his long body from my Mercedes and entered with me, holding the door for me, like a gentleman.

Again, it was busy in the coffee shop. Again, it smelled divine. Again, there was a long line. And again, Ryan was there.  This time I saw him immediately as I got in line, listening to Jake, who was standing very close to me, talking in my ear, so that I could hear him over the din.  I grabbed a yogurt.  Jake did too.

Ryan lit up when he saw me, but his eyes narrowed when he saw Jake standing so close, leaning into me as he spoke. When I got up to the counter, I learned that Ryan's effect on me was unchanged, although I was hopeful that this time I would be able to formulate words and speak them aloud, resulting in an order of a latte without major embarrassment. It appeared that my effect on Ryan was unchanged also, judging by the way he leaned up against the counter. This could be interesting.

"Hey, Movie Star," he greeted me.

I responded, "Hey," and ordered a latte with wild success. (I said, "I'd like a latte please."  It was going well.) Jake ordered one too, and put his yogurt next to mine, handing Ryan his credit card.

"Trial today?" Ryan asked. I nodded and went to answer, but Jake interrupted.

"I didn't know you were a regular, Amelia."

I shrugged.

Jake looked at me with interest and then turned to Ryan. "Amelia and I start trial in an hour."

"Good luck," said Ryan politely and then he handed me the duplicate receipt, even though Jake paid. "We're having a survey. If you could just fill this out, I'd appreciate it," he said, looking at me straight in the eyes, ignoring Jake, who had moved to the side, and the mob of people all around.

The paper said "PHONE NUMBER?"

I took it and followed Jake to the side.  It wasn’t even a debate whether I gave Ryan my phone number. I’d never been more affected by another person in my life. I was usually so closed off. Normally it took me a long time to warm up to people. I pretty much had only Marie to tell my secrets to, Hugo, to flirt with—or not—and the people at work to gossip with.  Ryan got through to me immediately. If I gave him my phone number, this meant that he would have access to me on his terms, not mine.

I thought about it for a second more.

That was fine with me. I wanted to see where this would go.  I found a pen in my purse, wrote down my number and grabbed my latte from the barista. On my way out the door, following Jake, I handed the receipt to Ryan, saying "here is my survey answer."

He took it, opened it, and smiled.  Then he took care of the next customer.

At lunch I checked my phone. There was a text from an unknown number.

Slay them. — Ryan

I texted back:
I will
, echoing his words when he kissed me. I remembered my snark while texting. Good.

That evening, I dropped Jake back at the office, where I had picked him up that morning, and headed home, exhausted.  I was so done.  We had a good first day of trial. So good, in fact, that we were feeling confident, which was dangerous. Still, we’d properly prepared and needed to rest up for the next day.  Having a trial was like studying for finals. It really wasn't a good idea to cram. You had to know what you were doing well ahead of time, and you had to get a good night's sleep so that you’d be mentally agile.  I pulled up to my house, parked, and saw a package sitting on my front porch, leaning against the front door.