“Burning desire?”
Fiona looks up from the champagne flute she’s been staring into since she began recounting her salacious story. She grips the stem so tight that I’m afraid it’ll be ground to sand between her fingertips.
“Do you want to hear about last night or not?”
I tap my notebook with the top of my pen. “Proceed.”
“…an inferno of burning, hot, sweltering desire between my thighs. I gasp as I realize what’s happening. Something—someone—is touching me. And it’s not the TV that has me panting in my sleep. It’s me. It’s Joshua. Joshua is caressing me as I am cradled in the crook of his arm. And I’m carrying on so loudly, so unabashedly, that I’m almost embarrassed at the explicit sounds escaping my lips. Still, I don’t open my eyes. He has to know that I’m awake, but this game is just too enticing to give up now.
“He lays me flat on my back, carefully placing my head on a pillow. I stay completely still, my eyes still closed, my lips parted in anticipation. I feel the sofa dip at my feet, and the soft scratch of pressed wool at my knees. His fingers rake over my stockings, like needles over silk. I’m internally begging him to rip them off me—shred them in his palms—but he’s so controlled and patient. He takes his time with me…”
“Patience. That’s a sexy trait.” I roll my eyes, but keep my head down as I continue to scribble down anything that I can use. My heroes are never patient. They’re hungry, ravenous, and mad with passion. They can’t stop touching their heroines, yet every touch is not nearly enough. The feel of their skin pressed together is the only thing they live for within those moments of savage lust.
“It is a sexy trait. Patience is vital for long-lasting, meaningful lovemaking. So what? You’re going to get the poor girl all worked up only to last thirty seconds? Do you know how insanely frustrating that is?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t. And the hero always lasts longer than thirty seconds in romance. He goes hours without breaking a sweat or needing to stop to stretch or get a drink of water. Patience has no purpose in love stories. When you want someone so badly—so completely—there’s nothing on God’s green earth that will keep you from having them. To touch them, to feel them, smell them, taste them, pleasure them…it’s their only purpose for being. It’s madness so raw that it transcends biology and logic.”
Fiona stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes and swallows. We must’ve absentmindedly placed our orders some time before the inferno of lust because there’s food in front of us: Tasso omelet for me and brioche French toast for her. Fucking right.
“My, August Rhys Calloway,” she breathes, taking on her feathery southern belle accent circa Scarlett O’Hara. “Such mighty passionate words for a gentleman who rejects all forms of honest-to-goodness, soul-crushing, all-consuming love. Maybe you believe more than you care to let on.”
I shoot her a narrowed look and cut into my omelet. “Not a chance. I believe in words. And in this case, the words are purely fictional. Continue.”
“I gasp aloud when I feel this fingertips at the tops of my stockings. He slowly eases them down my legs, careful not to snag them. When they reach the very tips of my toes, he brings each foot up and kisses the arch.”
I gag. Literally gag.
“My panties are the next to go, and after he frees me from them, he brings them up to his nose and takes a deep whiff. Then he stuffs them into his pocket.”
“Wait. Time out. The fuck? He did what with your panties?” The sound of my Mont Blanc dropping mid-scrawl onto the paper serves as the figurative screech on this conversation.
“It’s no big deal, Rhys,” Fiona whispers furiously, as if my disdain is offensive, not Joshua’s sick fixation with dirty underwear. “Why are you even surprised? Didn’t you write about the same thing in House of Noire? I’m pretty sure Antonio did the same thing to Gisele during their first love scene.”
“First of all, Antonio and Gisele never made love. They fucked like wild, dirty animals. Come on, it was a book about a young, naïve, virginal girl trying to make it in the porn industry. And second, that’s fiction! Do people actually do shit like that? Yeah, probably. But then you’d have to take into account what other undies he’s got stashed away. You don’t know their hygiene situations. And what does he do with them later? Frame them? Rub them all over his body, crotch side up? And just how many other pairs of panties has he collected? A drawer-full? A trunk-full? Come on, Fi. You’re better than a pair of worn panties in some corny guy’s trophy room.”
I don’t know why I’m getting so worked up about the subject; hell, I may have snagged a pair of panties in my day. But Fiona just isn’t the type of girl that should be attached to a memory like that. She’s so much classier, so much smarter, than a size 2 scrap of silk and lace applique.
I just wish she could see what I see. Someone genuinely better.
She shakes her head. “It’s not like that, Rhys. Joshua isn’t like that. He just thought it’d be sexy, you know. And it was. I’ve never experienced something so hot before in my life. And aren’t you the one that’s always telling me to put myself out there and live beyond the pages of my favorite books? I don’t want to keep reading about romance and love, and yes, sex. I want to have it for myself.”
I take another bite, forcing myself to carefully consider my next words. This is Fiona’s sex life, not mine. I can’t dictate whom she dates and what she does with them. But I don’t have to like it either. However, I do have to support it, just as she’s supported me through all my flavors of the month. Even the ones that were two fries short of a Happy Meal, and had me sleeping with one eye open after we had parted ways. She endured every cringe-worthy moment without judgment or complaint. She sat through dozens of awkward introductions and uncomfortable dinners because she cared about me and my happiness. And I owe her the same.
“You’re right, Fi. Please. Continue your story. I won’t make a peep, I swear.” I nod my encouragement, and pick up my pen. It’s just a panty sniff, I tell myself. No big deal. Certainly that pales in comparison to all the raunchy stuff I’ve divulged over this very table.
“Fine. So…” She takes a deep breath. Untouched Brioche French toast stares up at her in anticipation.
“There I am, bare for him. Open for him. So ready for him. He’s hard in his slacks, scarily so. He looks like he would burst right through the fabric if relief does not come soon. He hurriedly rips off his belt and tears through the buttons of his pants. My hips are cradled in his hands, his fingers digging into my backside, and then we… do it.”
“You do it?”
“You know… we do it. We make love.”
“Wait a minute. That’s it? All that build up, movie molesting and crotch sniffing and…that’s it? You do it?”
She finally turns her attention to her food, which coincidentally, looks a bit cold and limp. “What else can I say? It was nice.”
“Nice? Did you just say sex with him was nice? Oh, come on, Fi. You’re holding out. Something went down and you’re totally trying to hide it.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“Bullshit. Smelly, steaming bullshit. What happened?” I push my plate away in disgust of said bullshit and put my notebook in front of me, giving her my undivided attention.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s just… things were going great, or so I thought. I was into it. But then he says he wants to… try something.”
“Ok… try something like what?”
“I really don’t want to talk about this, Rhys.” If she hovers any closer to her plate, she’ll give herself a vanilla bean maple syrup facial.
My voice drops an octave, but my words echo loud and clear. “Did he do something to you that you didn’t want? Did that son of a bitch hurt you?”
“What? No! Nothing like that. It was just…I don’t know. Weird.”
“How so?”
“Do I have to relive it? Seriously. I’m still kinda skeeved by it.”
“Spill it, Fiona. I’m listening.”
She collects her bearings, and proceeds with every detail of the dirty.
“He moves inside me slowly, going in as deep as he possibly can before pulling out to the tip. His fingers trail down my belly and to the mound over my pelvic bone. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers haughtily. “But you would be perfect, if it weren’t for this.” He tugs at my short patch of hair down there, pinching enough between his fingers to give me a sharp, stinging jolt. I know what he means, but I ask him anyway. He tells me that he likes his women completely bare and smooth. He says it makes me…cleaner for him. Younger for him.”
“What the hell, Fi! He said that to you? Some balls on that one.”
“Shhhh, there’s more.”
“He tells me he can make me perfect for him, and it will take our lovemaking to new heights. He asks if he can shave me. He says it is incredibly erotic and will please him to touch me like that. I don’t know what to say, but I don’t want to disappoint him. So I nod my head Yes.
“He quickly leads me to the bathroom where he turns on the shower. We shed our shirts in silence, then I watch him open a drawer where he keeps razors and shaving cream. Girly stuff too. As if he had premeditated and planned this for us. It’s adorable too. He has so many different types and brands for me to choose from, every scent and color. He asks me which one I’d prefer he use on me.”
I so badly wanted to tell her that he hadn’t planned it at all. That he probably kept the drawer stocked for all the women he demeaned and shaved for his pleasure. Shit yeah, it could be sexy to shave a woman. I wasn’t knocking it. But it was something that both parties were comfortable with. Joshua was using it as a form of control.
“He leads me under the hot spray and tells me to lean against the wall. With his eyes pinned on me, on my sex, he slowly drops to his knees and hoists my foot onto his shoulder. He’s right there…staring…aligned with my love biscuit…”
I nearly spew vodka and tomato juice all over Fiona and her neglected breakfast.
She’s been calling her vagina her love biscuit for as long as I’ve known her, and I still can’t get used to it. She can let some douche rocket shave her, but she can’t even say the word pussy. Insane.
“He shaves me with careful, slow strokes, ensuring he doesn’t miss a spot. He even has me turn around and spread—”
“Ok, ok. I get it. We don’t need the gory details. Keep going.”
“When he’s done, he touches me. Every bit of the skin he’s meticulously shaved. He says I feel as smooth as a teenage girl, and he can’t wait to be inside me, sliding his flesh against mine. We make love right there in the shower, then again in his bed. He says it’s so much better now. He says he can feel every soft inch of me. And now I can feel all of him too. I’d never seen him so hot for me. It’s like he’s another person entirely.
“We fall asleep in each other’s arms, him softening inside me. And as I float off to dreamland, I realize that I am in love. Irrevocably and undeniably in love with him.”
A long time passes before either one of us look at the other. So long that our server has already cleared the table and brought the check.
“So?”
I look at Fiona, and pray that my expression doesn’t give me away. “So.”
“What do you think?”
What do I think? I look down at my notebook. I’d stopped scribbling notes somewhere between “smooth as a teenage girl” and “I am in love.”
“You honestly want to know what I think, Fi?”
“Yes. I do. I wouldn’t have told you all that if I didn’t.”
“Ok. Where should I start?” I lean forward and rest my chin on my rigid fingers. “Should we begin with how he took your underwear as a trophy? Or how he blatantly insulted you by suggesting you needed “sprucing up” down there to be “perfect for him?” Or how about how he compared your bare-naked vagina to one of a teenage girl? As if he knows firsthand what a teenage girl would look like down there? Or maybe we should just dive into the fact that you just said you’re in love with Captain Creeptastic. After all that, you actually think you’re in love with him!”
“I don’t think, August. I know. Joshua is a good man and I can really see a future with him, whether you realize it or not. So please save your cynical spiel and try to be happy for me. Because I’m happy. For the first time in a long time, I can truly say that I’m happy.”
“You think you’re happy, Fiona, but you don’t even know this guy.”
“And you know any of the dozens of girls you sleep with?”
Her words give me pause, and I take a moment to realize that all eyes are on us. Even through our fervent whispers, people can feel the tension coiling like a viper between us.
“Look, Fi,” I sigh aloud, slapping a few bills with the check. “I want to see you happy, but most importantly, I want to see you secure. So if you think this guy can provide both, then I’ll keep my opinions to myself and support you no matter what.”
Her petite hand landed on top of mine, on top of the notebook that contained her secrets. And mine too. “No, Rhys. I don’t want you to lie for my benefit. I want you to genuinely like him.”
“I can’t promise you that.” I look away.
“No? You love me, right?” She gives my hand a squeeze, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Right?”
“Right.”
“So don’t you think that you could possibly like Joshua, considering that you love me and I love him? Don’t you think he may have at least one redeemable trait that would be…I don’t know…likable to you? At least tolerable? Just give him a chance, please. For me. If you care about me, at least try to care about him too.”
I take her in—big, doe eyes pleading, delicate lips pressed into a hopeful smile. I’ve never been able to say no to her. Even with a tumbleweed attached to her head, I am a victim of her unsuspecting charm.
“One tolerable trait.”
She nods enthusiastically. “One tolerable trait. That’s all I ask.”
“Fine,” I huff out.
“Great!” she squeals, nearly jumping from her seat and tucking her clutch under her arm. “Because we’re having dinner Friday night.”
“Wait…what? How do you go from begging me to tolerate him to having dinner with him?” She shuffles out of the restaurant, and like a lost, dumbstruck puppy, I follow her, wondering how the hell I got suckered into breaking bread with Dr. Dickhead.
“You said you’d try to get along with him, yet you’ve never met him. Joshua is off Friday night, so it’ll be perfect. You two make up exactly two-thirds of the men in my life, so bringing you together is important to me. And speaking of my men…how is your grandfather?”
“Doing well. I’m actually going to see him today.”
My grandfather is the greatest, wisest man I’ve ever known, and the only reason why I didn’t totally turn out to be a hollow, self-centered prick. Benjamin Orson Calloway is a living legend in my eyes, and not just because he was a decorated officer who served in two wars. He was the one who put the first classic book in my hands—A Tale of Two Cities—when I was eight. At that age, I didn’t know what the hell I was reading, and I deemed it a poor choice of gift from the old Colonel. But with passing time and maturity, I found myself fishing the old hardback from the drawer where I had crammed it, hoping to grasp the magic bound in Dickens’ words. And I read and reread that book until that magic floated off those yellowing pages and embedded itself inside my soul.
Now, the Colonel, plagued with age, lives out his golden years in a senior citizen community where he’s been since the love of his life passed away six years ago. Taciturn, stubborn and hardened by his military days, he refused to pack up and move down to Boca with my parents. He’d rather battle out torrential winters and unbearably dry summers than be away from his Lee, the commander of his heart and soul for over half a century.
“Give the Colonel a kiss from me,” Fiona says before pecking
me on the cheek. “I’ll drop by to see him this week. And tell him I’ll bring him treats if he’s nice.”
I smiled. The Colonel was never nice. But he did love baked goods. It was the only thing sweet about him. “Will do. You want to do the bookstore today?”
“Can’t. Need to get home and shower. It’s bad enough that I just sat through an awkward brunch without underwear.”
I ruffle her unkempt hair the way a big brother would his little sister. “By the way, don’t ever do that again.” Then I bend down to kiss her forehead.
She makes a tsking sound and lifts her chin defiantly. “And why not? Those other women you hang out with probably have never even seen a pair of panties. At least not a pair with an actual crotch attached to them.”
I open my mouth to answer but she rolls her eyes and waves it off, walking backwards towards her car. “Let me guess… Fi, you’re not those other women,” she shouts, doing a downright disgraceful impression of me.
I shake my head and grin. “No, Fi. Those other women aren’t you.”
AUNTIES BOOKSTORE IS LIKE THE attic of bookstores. It’s drafty in the winter, kinda dusty, old and filled with treasures. None of the armchairs or lamps match, and even the shelves aren’t quite uniform. But it is— indisputably—my favorite place on earth.
“Hey, August!” the weekend cashier says from behind the counter, straightening a tree of bookmarks.
“Hey, Delores. How’s it going?”
“Pretty calm today. Hey! Looks like you sold a book!”
Delores points to the section designated for local authors, and the small space reserved for Tears of Glass by August R. Calloway is indeed short by one book. I’m genuinely surprised. Since self-publishing ToG right after college, Aunties has displayed it proudly and has even included it in various promos. However, in six years, it has sold less than what a Hope Hughes book has done in a week. And that’s including friends and family pity buys.
“Way to go! Any news on your next book? You know we’ve been waiting on it.” The sheer pride and admiration on Delores’s round face is genuine, and it almost makes me feel bad for deceiving her. For deceiving all of them.