Burn (Songs of Submission #5)(17)

See you on the plane.

Mon

The day before I left for Vancouver, I stood at my locker, shoving my work shoes in and stepping into my street shoes, when Jonathan appeared like a shiny new penny.

“Your eye healed up nice.”

I jumped. “Jesus, stop that. I thought you were leaving me alone until I got back.”

He leaned on the locker bank, crossing his ankles. “Take my plane. Seriously.”

“You came here to convince me to take a private jet to my art opening? Talk about a nice problem to have.” I slammed the locker shut and locked it. He smiled at me, then for half a beat, too quickly for anyone to notice, he dropped his eyes and drank me in. I felt as though he was stroking me from toes to shoulders, and a tingle went through me.

“Great, I’ll make sure it’s ready.”

“I didn’t say I’d take it.”

I brushed past him. Not because I wanted to make a threatening gesture, but because my desire to be near him made the hallway too narrow. He walked beside me as if he belonged there. As if I’d agreed to a discussion about our relationship before the appointed time, which I hadn’t.

“So, what’s keeping you going to LAX in traffic and getting on a coach flight with three hundred other people?”

The employee exit spit out into the parking lot, which was crowded with staff arriving, leaving, and greeting each other with laughs and short conversations.

I had to walk close to him or talk loud enough to be heard by everyone. “Look, I’ll have the conversation if you think it will change something, but if I start accepting favors and gifts beforehand, it’s tainted.”

I approached my Honda with my key out, but as I went for it, he put his hand on the car, covering the seam between the door and the roof. That hand was right in front of me, with its spray of copper hair and fingers shaped to please. All I could think about was it running over my body, flat first, then curving to my shape. It would stop to hold and grab the parts it found, tightening on my skin, bruising me with badges of agonizing pleasure.

He said into my ear, “I admire your nobility, but the conversation’s already tainted by a few dozen orgasms.”

He still wasn’t touching me, and he pulled his face away enough so I’d have to do just a little more than lean into him to steal a kiss. I craved the warmth of his breath and his touch. God, his touch. His body was arched and I stood straight, though the desire to fit into him like a spoon in a drawer was an almost chemical impulse.

Kiss me kiss me kiss me…

But he stood still. “You don’t want to be on a flight with Kevin Wainwright any more than I want you on it.”

I could have mentioned Kevin’s email as proof that our encounter was a misunderstanding, but I wouldn’t be an excuse maker for a guy who didn’t understand the word “no.” He’d ended up with a bleeding shoulder and bashed-in face for the trouble, but that was hardly the point.

“We’ve done everything wrong,” I said. “Me, mostly. So I’m not going to walk into a conversation with you all sexed up from your money.”

His smile spread, and his eyes closed a little. He bowed his head as if he didn’t want me to see his amusement, but I saw his shoulders shake a little with laughter.

“The things you say,” he said when he finally picked up his head.

“The things you do,” I replied. “Can I get in, please? I have to pack.”

He took his hand off the door. “You should wear that thing you wore to the Eclipse show. I know you won’t let me buy you something new.”

“Forget that, Drazen.”

“The shoes at least.” He stepped backward twice, and I couldn’t help but give him the same type of look he’d given me earlier. I drank him in. His neck, his shoulders, the dark blue suit covering the body I imagined. The chest pressed against mine. The arms stretched over me, holding my hands down. The hips thrusting into me cruelly. He took another step back, and I felt as though I was being pulled forward.

Stunning creature. I wondered, like he said, God had made him for me as much as I’d been made for him. Of course, God then spitefully created a world where we couldn’t be together without being puppets of other people’s imaginations.

CHAPTER 13.

MONICA

I stood on my front porch, shaking. I looked only at my keys as they slid into the lock and only at the knob as I turned it. My gaze zoomed no wider than the door as it opened. I hated acting like a toddler playing peek-a-boo, believing if I couldn’t see Mommy, she couldn’t see me.

The house already smelled musty. I put my head down and walked to my room. I shut out my peripheral vision because I couldn’t be sure there weren’t eyes in the corners. I focused on my feet as they traversed my living room rug. My kitchen floor. The wood floor of the hall.

My room.

I threw the duffel on my bed.

The closet. The dress, still in a dry cleaning bag.

The shoes, clumped on the floor.

The bathroom. My fancy makeup.

The dresser.

The top drawer.

I only had the Bordelle underwear left.

Under a manila envelope.

The bed.

The duffel bag.

The objects pushed inside.

Shoes. Dress. Underwear. Makeup. Envelope.

The zipper.

My feet on the floors. The rug.