Boston Page 11

  “Did it work?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. But I liked the image. I wanted to take her somewhere like that when she got better. But she never really did, you know? And I was just a kid. But here’s the thing. Every year on the anniversary of her death, I go to her grave and put something blue there. Just a small thing, a pretty thing. Last year I left a blue ribbon that was the right color. The year before, the most perfect blueberry from the pint I bought at lunch.”

  “That’s sweet, Abby.” His voice is rough. “Poetic.”

  “It sounds poetic, but in real life maybe not so much.” I laugh a little. “Ants started getting right on the blueberry and then a bird came and ate it. And the ribbon? A little girl stole it.”

  Boston laughs, too. “Like, right in front of you?”

  I nod. “Pretty much. They were at the grave next door. It was cool, though. I guess it was better. I mean, how shitty is it that a little girl had to visit a stupid graveyard, anyway, you know? So it made me smile when she took it. Although then she stuck it up her nose and told her brother, “I’m going to put this big snot on you!”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I laughed. And then I cried. I hate going there. It doesn’t get easier. At least the little girl and the ribbon? I didn’t feel so alone.”

  “I’ll go with you. Next time.” His voice is rough.

  I look up with shock. “What? You didn’t even know her.”

  “I know you.” His eyes are firm. “You just tell me when the day is, and I’ll meet you there. Hold your hand.”

  “It’s—it’s my birthday. The day she died.” I feel tears in my eyes.

  “Shit.” He puts down the beer, takes mine away, too, and wraps me in his arms.

  I push into him. “Boston, I’m sorry I keep crying around you. I don’t mean to be such a downer.”

  He holds me tight. “You’re no downer. You’re interesting and wicked funny. You made me laugh with those crazy crayon ideas. Everyone is allowed to be sad, Abby.”

  I nod and rest my head on his shoulder. It feels so right to be here, his strong body breathing with mine, his arms strong yet loose around me. I look at the moon, which is still cartoon-like in its perfection.

  “Why did you and Annalise break up?” I ask, stroking along his arm. It’s not a sexual touch, not exactly, but neither is it innocent.

  He shifts. “I guess we ran out.”

  “Ran out?”

  “Yeah. Ran out of things to talk about. Things to do together. Things that made us both happy at the same time. She’ll always be my girl. I love her. But not that way anymore.”

  “But she’s so beautiful!” The words come out despite the fact that I hate myself for saying them, and I cringe.

  Boston peers down. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. She’s so pretty. How could any guy not want to be with her? I just don’t understand.”

  “But I told you why.” He sounds a little impatient. “We weren’t working right anymore.”

  “But I mean… Are you still attracted to her?” I bite back the words, “she’s so pretty,” because I think that might irritate him further.

  He shrugs his arms up and down around me. “Not really. We’re past that. Of course I know she’s gorgeous. I’m grateful that she still models for me after our breakup because she’s amazing on camera. But the other stuff? It’s like a one-way ticket, Abby. We got to the end of our trip and now it’s done. We’re not going back.”

  “A one-way ticket.” I try out the words. “Boston, that’s genius. Can I use it in a book?”

  “Don’t mock me.” He takes his arms away and sits up.

  “Boston! I’m not mocking you. I actually think that’s beautiful. The way you said it. A one-way ticket. We’re at the end of our trip and we’re not going back. It’s a poem. It could be perfect in a novel.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest and shoots me an unreadable look. “You really want that in a book? Is this going to be something like that guy, Shit My Father Says?”

  “No. It’s going to be something my sexy, smart hero says.” I emphasize smart, frowning back at him.

  He tips one shoulder. “Be my guest, I guess. I’m glad I can entertain.” His words sound uncertain.

  I blow out a breath. “Okay. Because it’s not entertaining, Boston. It’s—beautiful.” There’s a silence, then I get up. “Okay. I guess I’ll get going.”

  He stands up and gives me a quick kiss on the lips, not a lingering one like the other day, the one I’m craving, and certainly not the one from my dreams, the one where he devours me whole. It’s nothing like what I wanted before, when I was touching myself during his shoot, but that feels a million lightyears distant, as if it happened to another person. Right now Boston is holding back for some reason. I need to figure it out, if we’re going to go forward with this.

  ***

  We’ve been working together a few weeks now, and he hasn’t kissed me again. I think he wants to, but here’s the thing—the times he seems to want to, now, are the times when we’re alone and start flirting. That sexy banter that maybe I start, or maybe he does, the jokes that could so easily turn into a conflagration if I just said yes.

  The problem is that I want him to want me during the regular moments, too; the ones when I’m sitting there winding hair around my finger and staring at the screen, or even more important, the moments when I’m standing there watching him work with models or when we’re revising the contract with Erik. I want him to want me even when I am compared to everyone else. I want him to want me so badly that it doesn’t matter if the entire Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition is prancing around naked. I’ve never really been into casual, “let’s fuck because we’re both here and don’t have anything better to do.” If I let myself even try that with Boston? I know I’d lose my heart in half a second. The more I get to know him, the more infatuated I am. What I thought in the beginning, about him not being that smart? It was so wrong and horrible, because he’s brilliant in his own way. And funny.

  I eat lunch at his place every day now. I’m not dumb. I know that the lean meats and veggies are what give me the slow-release energy, and that because I’m eating better, I’m not having so many afternoon crashes. It’s crazy how just a few weeks of healthy lunches have made a difference. Well, I admit I’ve stopped with the caramel coffee milkshakes from the corner coffee shop and the donuts, too, because when I don’t bring that… he cooks breakfast for me. And I like it.

  We take turns making eggs and surprising each other with the veggies we mix in. Last time it was my turn, I put in chopped celery and mushrooms, which might sound disgusting, but it was really good. He usually does spinach and kale and tomato.

  One day after our breakfast I start writing and get frustrated. I’m trying to organize chunks of my book and I’m irritated that it’s not coming together as easily as I’d like, and I curse under my breath and tug at my hair.

  “What are you doing now?” His voice is lazy, light. He’s looking at me from across the room. I didn’t know he was there.

  I startle, then answer. “Weaving.” I like the intonation of his words, and the way they dropped into my consciousness like rocks into a still pond, making ripples that spread out, warming me.

  “Weaving? What do you mean?” He comes closer and stands next to me. He leans his butt back against the desk and looks down at me, and I look up at him. The light makes his face glow.

  I close the laptop lid and regard him for a minute. “I guess I’m taking all the pieces of my story and sewing them together with words.”

  “You don’t write from start to finish?” He seems interested.

  I shake my head. “I write all kinds of scenes and segments, and then I put them together when I’m ready.” I hesitate. “I read this book once, when I was a kid. Have you ever heard of St. Therese of Lisieux?”

  He laughs. “I’m a Boston Catholic boy, Abs, but I confess I’m no
t up to speed on all my saints. Refresh my memory.”

  I roll my eyes and slap him on the thigh, but the touch makes me burn. “So there was this girl, Therese, and she ended up being a saint, and she lived in a monastery and had to deal with gross black spiders and mean nuns. But that’s not the important part for now. Her mother was a lace maker, and the most important kind of lace maker. She would take pieces of lace from all of the talented workers, and weave them all together into one coherent piece. It was painstaking, critical work, and she was good at it—the best.”

  “So you see yourself as the mother of a saint?” he teases.

  I slap him again, and this time I let my fingers linger and slide down his leg, and he tenses his quad under my touch. I press my hand against his jeans leg and hold. “I see myself at the most difficult part of my book, the part where I have to make it all come together. It’s the hard part, and it takes tiny little stitches, millions of them. But each one matters.” I pause. “Right now, I have that great blow job scene that I wrote, but I’m not sure where to put it.”

  He chuckles. “I know where to put it. Too bad you didn’t, though.”

  “Boston!” I press my fingers into his leg, remembering that day I teased him. He got so turned on, and so did I. I remember how it was all I could do to keep myself from following through on my teases. I glance at his face and I know instantly that he’s remembering that day, too. He’s not laughing anymore. Now he has that sexy look, predatory and intense, the way his breathing has quickened. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

  I reluctantly pull my fingers away. “Don’t stop,” he says, his voice husky.

  “What?”

  “Don’t stop touching me.” His voice is a command and a request, all at once. I feel my face get hot. “I like it.” Now his voice is sensuous. “Touch me again, St. Abbilene. And if you do it right, and then if I do it right, I’ll have you screaming out the name of our good Lord.”

  “You’re so bad.” But my body starts to tingle with desire, anyway. I shouldn’t do this. But I want to. And I reach out.

  “Aw, I promise to do my penance,” he murmurs. “Want me on my knees?” He deliberately stands up, then kneels in front of me, getting down on one, then the other. He pulls my swivel chair around and suddenly tugs my knees apart and I gasp. “Boston!”

  He runs his hands up my thighs. “Wider.” And God help me, I do, gazing at him, helpless, unable to resist his voice, his face, his touch. “More.” I burn and obey.

  “Hmmm…” He cocks his head. “Not gonna work. I’m too tall for this.” He gets up and suddenly lifts me from the chair like I weigh nothing, and sets me on the desktop, somehow depositing me down and spreading my legs again as he does it, and then he gets back on his knees, his head even with my—

  “That’s better,” he says, with satisfaction in his voice. “Don’t you think?” He runs his hands up my calves, squeezing, touching, then relaxes them on my knees, his fingers splayed open, and I can feel the heat of each digit through the fabric.

  “Abby? I asked you a question.”

  “Yes. Better.” I suck in my breath. “Boston?”

  “Yeah?”

  He smiles up at me, his eyes dark and dangerous, his smile sexy.

  “What, I mean…?” I trail off, hesitant, my heart beating so hard I can feel the pulse in my neck.

  “Relax,” he murmurs, “and close your eyes.”

  “But I—”

  “Do it, Abby.”

  I lick my lips and watch something spark in his eyes, then I close mine and lean my head back.

  I feel his hands massage my knees, then move higher up along my thighs, all the while stroking and caressing me, warm and confident, and suddenly he slides both hands under my butt and pulls me forward until his head is nestled between my legs, and I squeal in surprise and reach out and grab his hair.

  “Eyes closed,” he reminds me, and I suck in my breath, eyelids flickering.

  He stays there for a moment, resting his head against my belly, his mouth breathing warmth on the crotch of my jeans, and I feel myself get wet even though I’m fully clothed and he’s just there. He doesn’t say anything and I don’t either, but I weave my fingers through his hair. It’s soft and a little curly, wiry, maybe, on top? Not at all greasy. It feels good. I scratch gently along his scalp and he makes a noise in his throat, then he squeezes his hands on my ass cheeks through the jeans and pulls again until my pelvis is right against his mouth.

  “You think this position could work, Abby?” he asks, into my body through my clothes, and I feel my entire body thrum with desire, with need. My entire focus is on the tiny bundle of nerves between my legs and the man whose mouth is separated from it by one layer of denim, and how I’m dying to feel his lips on my bare body.

  “Abby?” His voice lowers, stern, and the demand implicit in his tone makes me gasp with arousal.

  “Yes. Pl—yes.” I nod and grab at his hair, trying to pull him closer.

  “Does it feel good?” His voice is a caress.

  “Yes.” My voice is hoarse. I grab his hair harder.

  “Tell me to keep going, then,” he whispers into the hot space between my legs, and I moan and squeeze at him with my thighs. My body craves him, and all I want to do is give in to it. I want him so badly.

  “Boston,” I say, my voice gaspy. “Please—keep going.”

  He sighs and leans forward and I feel the pleasure as he rubs his nose along just the right place, but then he pulls back and stands up. He drops one hard kiss onto my lips and then he’s gone, his warmth, his hands, his touch.

  My eyes open in surprise. “Boston?”

  He’s standing there, arms crossed on his chest, eyes narrowed. I can see his body straining against his own jeans, so he’s not stopping from a lack of desire. Then he smiles, and it’s not entirely a kind smile.

  “Payback,” he whispers. “And a helping… hand. Just trying to give you ideas for new positions for your book.” He winks and walks away, leaving me frustrated, aroused, embarrassed, and mad. “Just like the other day when you teased me about a BJ, remember?”

  “Boston, you… you SUCK!” I scream after him. I’m trembling on that desk, from nerves, arousal, and embarrassment. I never thought he’d use my own game against me!

  I hear him laughing as he heads to the back door. “Maybe next time, if you’re lucky. I’m gonna take a walk. Enjoy your writing, Saint Abby.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next week, he invites me out to a bar to meet some of his friends. I don’t know if it means anything that’s he invited me somewhere. It’s the first time he’s ever expressed interest in what I do when our work day is over. We never talked about how he teased me with his tongue and then left me sitting there. But the tension simmers below the surface still, in looks and eye contact. It’s thrilling and unsettling. I enjoy the sexual arousal and the flirtation, but then I still feel shatteringly sad when I see him partner with Annalise for photos. It’s a strange emotional roller coaster.

  We get to the bar first, before his buddies arrive, and settle in at a battered wooden table. The vanished surface is pockmarked and riddled with scars, initials, and old cup rings. It’s like a yearbook for the ghosts of former clientele, and I run my fingers over a heart and a jagged “S.C. + B.B.”, wondering whether S and B ever ended up together.

  Boston touches my shoulder and I lean into the touch, feeling uncertain about being here, about how his friends will like me. My heat is beating hard and I feel the way I did before high school track meets: amped up, ready to run, almost frantic with anxiety.

  A few of his friends come up and he introduces me. “This is Abby. She’s my boss.” He winks at me and I flush.

  “You lucky motherfucker,” says one of the guys, tugging on his baseball cap and giving me a look of approval. “I want a hot boss, too.” He pulls out the chair next to me, and it does a wood on wood scream as the leg scrapes over the boards.

  “Oh, you’re too sweet,”
I say, rolling my eyes. “You probably say that to all the bestselling authors who work with a sexy model like Boston.” I sit up straight and take his hand as he offers it, hoping I’m cool enough for their approval. Then I feel pissed at myself for thinking I need it, and frustrated because I sort of kind of do need it.

  “I can model,” he says, pulling up his shirt to reveal abs as tight and defined as Boston’s, and I raise my eyebrows.

  “Wow. Nice.” I give a small whistle. Boston scowls.

  “Right? Want to touch? You can punch me if you want. It won’t hurt.” He’s so cocky. “My name’s Cliff.”

  “Cliff. Maybe I’ll punch you next time.” I give him a look, hoping he stops while he’s ahead. He’s on the line between funny and obnoxious, and for all of our sakes, I hope he figures out how to stay on the right side. I don’t want to make a scene, and I don’t want Boston to have asshole friends.

  Cliff’s smart enough to sense it, I guess, or maybe he reads something in Boston’s body language, because he pulls his shirt back down. “Sorry. I’m just all hyped up from the gym,” he says. “And I wanted to let you know how nice you looked. I can tell by your accent you’re not from here. Offering up abs and punches is the local way of sayin’ nice to meet yah.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay. I’ll be sure to try it out next time I’m at the bar.” I mimic pulling up my shirt, although I don’t really do it, and simper, “Ohmigod, look at my abs! Want to punch them?” Then I add, “Do you think it works to skip the line in the post office or get better service at the deli?”

  Everyone laughs, and I can tell I’ve passed some kind of cool test, because the guys settle in and down and around me, comfortable in Boston’s space even though I’m there. I can tell they’re still curious about what I am to him, but they don’t ask.

  Another guy is called Jimmy, and when I come back from the bathroom, they’re teasing him about a girl.

  “Is she pretty?” asks Cliff.

  Jimmy flushes and shrugs. “She’s all right.”

  “Just all right? Dude. You’re as ripped as Boston. You can do better than all right.” Cliff makes a rude hand gesture and the guys laugh.