Boston Page 5

  “Oh, live a little,” I challenge. I pick up a cake donut sprinkled with white sugar and take a bite, licking my lips to get all the sweetness. “It’s soooo good.”

  A muscle clenches in his jaw. He goes into the kitchen and comes out with a tall glass of some thick green liquid that looks like someone put grass clippings and swamp water in a blender on low.

  “Here.” He plucks the donut from my fingers and tosses it back into the bag, and wraps my hand around the glass. “Taste this. One sip and you’ll realize what you really want for fuel.”

  I eye the glass with misgivings, although I like the feel of his fingers arranging mine. “This is regurgitated cud. I’m not a cow.”

  “It’s a veggie and fruit shake, Abby, and it’s got so many nutrients that you’ll go insane. One mouthful.”

  One mouthful… one mouthful. My mind goes off in a thousand directions, but I dutifully put the glass to my mouth and take a small sip. It tastes like fields and alfalfa and sunlight and green; it’s not horrible. But neither is it what I’d call “delicious.” I wrinkle my nose and hand the glass back. “I did one. Give me back my donut.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Abby, every single thing you put into your mouth is either fighting disease or feeding it. Think about that when you eat your ring of grease. I hope diabetes doesn’t run in your family.” He chuckles, but I feel my eyes swell.

  It takes a few seconds, but he notices. “Abby? What is it?”

  I feel a tear squeezing out. “Nothing.”

  “It’s clearly not nothing. Shit, did I hurt your feelings? What I said about the food?” He sounds incredulous. “Seriously?” He blows out a breath.

  I shake my head. “Something else. Forget about it.”

  He comes closer. “I don’t like to make girls cry. Come on. Tell me.” He sounds kind but demanding, and his tone makes my stomach lurch despite the topic.

  “My mom had diabetes before she died. It wasn’t the reason, but she had a lot of complications.”

  He folds me into his strong chest, holding one hand against the back of my head, stroking my hair. “Aw, Abby, I’m sorry. How long ago?”

  I swallow. “Twelve years ago. And every single moment of every day since.” His arms feel good.

  “Oh, man. I really messed up, then. Abby, I just—I love teaching people about fitness, okay? It’s one of the few—I mean, I’m good at it and I like helping. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m sorry about your mom. My mom died when I was a kid, too. I get it.”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t know. It’s okay. And I just, I just miss her, you know?”

  He strokes my hair. “Yeah. I know.” The doorbell rings and he lets go of me. “That’s gonna be Chelle.”

  I suck in a tremulous sigh. One day I’m teasing him with a pretend blow job, the next he’s consoling me about my mom. This is a strange thing we have going. It’s confusing. But I like it.

  Chelle is tall and lean with wiry muscles and jet-black hair pulled into a bun and fastened with ornate silver chopsticks. A cluster of colorful tattoos twines up her left arm and disappears under the soft scoop of her black tank. When she lifts her arm, I notice a thick swatch of underarm hair dyed blue.

  She sees me looking. “Goin’ natural is the new black,” she announces, adjusting her purple-rimmed glasses. “It’s very freeing. My othah arm is purple. My girlfriend Rain is doing it, too, except she’s got green and pink. We’re a rainbow.” She smiles. “Sometimes I think we should lie down together with our arms up and pose for a Gay Pride picture.”

  I laugh. I like her sense of humor.

  Chelle unwraps a piece of mint gum. “Want some?” She holds it out.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  Boston snorts. “You know that sugar-free shit is not good for you, Chelle.”

  “Fuck off, Parker,” she says, flipping her finger, and I love the accent and the attitude both.

  “Thank God,” I say. “Someone who enjoys regular food.” I give Boston a baleful stare, and he laughs.

  “Chelle eats better than I do,” he informs me, “but she has her vices.” His voice is warm. “Chelle, I got some more kale-cucumber-celery juice in the kitchen for later. Maybe we can convince Abby to give it a real try.” He winks at me and adds, “She said she’s up for new experiences, right, Abby?” But something in his face is serious, and I flush, look away.

  I don’t answer his question. “So what are you going to shoot today?”

  “Me.” Boston smiles at me. “The ones out back by the garden, the ones of me angry punching the wall, the ones of me in the shower. The ones of me on the bike.”

  Chelle is doing something with her camera, and she doesn’t react to these words with any outward show of arousal, the kind that my body is doing to me in a crazy fashion.

  I run through the Excel spreadsheet in my mind. The poses sounded sexy when he mentioned them, but knowing that he’ll be stripping down to nothing and posing, right here, right now? My pulse couldn’t get faster. It really couldn’t.

  I nod. “Cool.” I’m aiming for nonchalant author, but what comes out is a croak that’s all “fan girl.” I clear my throat. “I’ll just get my water bottle from the car. Have fun.”

  I retreat to my Prius and actually get into the front seat and put both hands on the steering wheel and grip it, trying to calm down, regain my control.

  I look at the automotive logo, blank my mind, and listen to a fly buzz; it’s trapped in the backseat. A minute goes by, the air warm and close like a blanket. The hot sun on my neck and the faint sound of the insect bring me back to my childhood. It’s like I’m on one end of a ribbon, a long stretched-out ribbon, and my childhood is at the other end, and time suddenly ripples the ribbon and puts me next to that old scene from twenty years ago.

  I can smell fresh watermelon and chicken charring on the BBQ grill, hear my mom calling “Abbilene! Jace! Come in and set the table, please.” I can feel the tugging itchy pain of the healing scab on my knee every time I pump the swing, but I don’t care, because the wind on my face from my own flight outweighs it. And then I leap from the swing when it’s at the peak, half sure I’m going to take off into the clouds, then suddenly just as sure that I’m going to die, but that thought fades quickly, because I’m safe, my life is charmed, and nothing bad ever happens. I land in the scuffed grass, my legs and ankles vibrating with the hard shock of the landing, a sick feeling in my shins, my stomach in my throat. And then I get up, unharmed, and run in.

  I was so infinitely safe back then, when everyone and everything important was immortal, when even bad decisions had happy endings. When home made me invincible. I wish I had that same confidence now. These days, things seem so complicated, people and relationships so hard to navigate. Especially this one, with Boston. And the one I have with myself, my own lack of self-confidence.

  I know that I should have faith in myself, and I do!—when it comes to writing, intellectual stuff, brainy stuff. Then I rock like a rock star. I’m never afraid of challenges that involve my skills. But when it comes to men, I worry about how I look, how I compare, and it makes me shrivel up inside. It’s been a problem for as long as I can remember. I think it started back in grade school when I was chubby and never got asked to dance in junior high. But even when I joined track in high school and lost weight and regained my fitness, I never regained that sense of pride in my body. And being around body temples doesn’t help. I know a man as ripped and handsome as Boston can get his choice of women, and his ex—Annalise—is maybe the prettiest woman in the world.

  I open the back door of the car and shoo the fly out, and go back into Boston’s house without the water bottle. Boston and Chelle are gone, probably in back, and I want to watch but I also don’t, so I sit at the computer and start writing.

  I’m in a pensive mood and different words pour from my fingers, something rougher and stranger than my sex scenes from yesterday. Today I write the back-story of my heroine; the zigzagged scars on
her heart that make it difficult for her to trust. I write the gentle coaxing love of my hero, who opens her petal by petal to expose her deepest secrets, and how their trust becomes so strong that it survives every cataclysmic event I’m going to throw their way.

  Once again I write in a trance, breaking only to raid his fridge, a frustrating endeavor; I end up with a Red Delicious apple, some mini carrots, and some slices of organic turkey breast. It’s not the burger and fries I was craving, but it fills me up. My energy continues and I get back into the writing without my usual afternoon slump, and by the time Boston and Chelle come back in, I’ve written another two thousand words. I’m so excited that I’m nearly vibrating.

  Boston swipes at his hair with a towel. He’s got another one around his waist. My eyes trace his happy trail of hair down to where the towel starts and, holy hell, I realize he’s naked under there.

  Chelle is exuberant. “We got totally awesome shots, Abby. You ah going to love these so freakin’ much. I can’t wait ‘til we edit them and show you.” She’s almost skipping. “Parker outdid himself today, he really did. We struck gold.”

  I nod, trying not to stare at the V of Boston’s abdomen, his six-pack, the water drops on his shoulder. I want to dry him off with my tongue. I hope he gets dressed so I can focus again, but instead he goes right to the kitchen, pours a cup of his green goo, and comes back out, chugging it.

  “You get work done, too?” He’s looking at me.

  I nod. “Even more than yesterday. No writer’s block or anything. And it’s good, too.” I hesitate, not sure if I should, but say it anyway. “Sometimes? I write but it feels forced, and when I read it back it’s boring, like a history textbook. More like an outline of a story than the actual story, and I have to go back another day, when I’m more inspired, and fix it. But today it was beautiful and pulsing and alive, all of it.”

  Boston and Chelle both nod and start to talk at once, their words tumbling over each other, and she gestures at him. “No, you go.”

  His eyes are excited, locked onto mine. “Abby. That’s exactly how it with photography. When I’m in the zone, it all goes well and the lighting is perfect and the poses are perfect, and when I get them into Photoshop, I can feel the energy through the screen. Other days it’s a drag, the mood isn’t right, and then the pictures are worthless.”

  Chelle can’t wait to talk. “It’s exactly the same. All artists speak the same thing inside.” She thumps her chest and silver rings flash from all of her fingers. “We all get the same highs and lows. I guess today we all got the high.” She smiles and checks her watch. “I gotta go meet my girl. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  She packs up her things, and it’s me and Boston and the silence of his room in the late afternoon, the sun sending generous, autumnal swaths of brilliance across the room, making things glow orange and yellow. I hear a meow, and jump. “Boston, did a cat get in here?”

  He laughs and scoops up a thing that’s mostly long white fluffy hair and cuddles it against his chest. “This is Doll. She’s shy. She was probably undah my bed all day.”

  “How did I not even know you had a cat? Your house doesn’t smell.”

  I clap my hand over my mouth, but he laughs. “Thank God, right? Her litterbox and cat tower are down in the basement. She probably didn’t come up when you were around because she’s a little shy. Don’t try to pet her until she gets used to you. She isn’t that friendly to newcomers.”

  “I’m more of a dog person anyway.” I watch as the creature bumps her head into Boston’s shoulder and makes a rasping purr. “She seems to love you.”

  “Yeah.” His voice is affectionate. The cat meows and drops to the floor with a thump, then wanders off, her tail moving like a separate entity. I’m fascinated.

  “I wouldn’t have ever thought you were a cat person,” I observe, and somehow that’s not the right thing to say.

  “Why? Am I not smart enough to qualify for a cat?” His voice isn’t as easy as before.

  “No! I just, you seem so, rough. Tough muscle guy. Cats are kind of… sweet. You know, gentle.”

  The cat screams out a horrible sound, hisses. It leaps up into the air and does an incredible twist, something out of dolphin Olympics, and lands without a sound. Its paw goes crazy, a blur of motion, and it yowls again and bats with both hands—they’re nimble as mine, now—and I realize that it’s playing with a bug.

  “Arrggghhehe!” The sound that comes from my throat is only marginally more pleasant than that of the cat’s. “Is that a spider? Oh, my God.” I grab at the desk chair, ready to climb. “Do you have Raid or is she going to actually eat that?”

  Boston laughs so hard he almost loses the towel and has to grab at it. “It’s a cricket, Abby!” He rewraps the terry cloth without exposing anything. “Apparently cats find them delicious. You know, crickets are getting really popular in health food circles. Lean with lots of protein.”

  “Well, you should have her hunt for you,” I say in a sort of snappy voice. “You could fry them up with onions and have a really healthy dinner. Save some money, too.” My heart is still racing.

  “I get by.” His voice is tense. He heads into his bedroom, calling back, “I’m going to change. Wait for me, okay? I want to review our progress before you go.”

  I bite at my lip. Boston is a confusing man—sometimes funny, sometimes defensive. Always sexy. Did he think I was mocking him with the cricket comment? I’ve figured out by now that I make more money than he does, but honestly, who cares about that? Besides, I can see his drive and ambition, and I’m one hundred percent sure that he’ll be so successful with his work that someday he’ll be flush. I feel uneasy: Should I apologize? Probably not, right? It would make things more awkward.

  I save my work onto my zip and slide the laptop into my case, waiting for Boston. He comes out in low-slung black jeans and a sleeveless black tee, barefoot. His feet are not disgusting, I note—not hairy, not gnarly. They look… sexy. Erik’s toes were long and white and reminded me of ghost fingers one time, and then every time I saw them for the rest of our relationship, I preferred it when he wore socks. Boston’s toes look good enough to suck. I don’t even like feet!—feet are gross! Why the hell am I even thinking these weird thoughts?

  Boston’s not pissy anymore. He pulls up his spreadsheet and shows me all the shots he’s checked off, a few he’s changed, a few he’s deleted. I agree with all of it. Then he shows me some of the pictures from today, warning me a thousand time that these are “raw” (whatever that means) and “still need to be edited” so I need to remember they’re just starters.

  When he shows me the one of him on the bike, I feel a surge of moisture between my legs. I wish I had gone out there now, to watch. This is art and erotica and it belongs in a museum. His lean, strong body is stretched out along the bike, he’s naked except for boots that are unlaced and up on the handlebars. His head is tossed back over the seat, his body curves along the bike, sexy and sinuous and sinful. He looks like he’s in the throes of passion, and the only thing blocking the full Monty is his hand and arm, casually, accidentally in front of his groin. As in the club, I know my eyes are wide, and I’m staring, but his picture is so beautiful and sensual that I can’t even—I can’t even.

  “Boston!” I say. “This—this needs to be the cover. Oh, my God. This is fantastic. I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing this is.”

  His voice is reverent. “Yeah. It turned out.” He sounds proud. Then he gets critical. “I should have asked Chelle to use a slightly smaller aperture but it’s okay because everything’s pretty much in the same frame, and if I sharpen nobody will notice the softness on the tip of the boots. I wish I’d had my hand a little more relaxed but it’s okay. I’m going to have to do some dodging and burning and—”

  I grab his hand on the mouse. “Boston. It’s perfect.”

  My eyes meet his and there’s a spark. He leans in. “Abby.” His lips are full and sensual and soft. I remember
that mine are not and lick along my bottom one, automatically checking for more rough skin, and he sucks in a breath. “Abby.” His voice is rough.

  “Yes?” My voice is soft, shy, but I can’t look away. His eyes are so nice, the lashes are long, the color clear and bold. The look he gives me is different from that cocky, confident stare the other day, when I ended up teasing him about the blow job. Today it’s something fiercer, but softer at the same time, a request and a question.

  He strokes my bottom lip with one thumb and smiles, and that sends spires of arousal through my pelvis. His eyes burn into me, and then he brushes his lips over mine, a soft swipe, just a slight moment without tongue or pressure, but it’s enough to make me moan.

  He pauses and rubs my lip again, back and forth, and I stick out my tongue and lick along his thumb, a sensuous path that says more than words.

  “Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, then his lips are back, harder, and his tongue is in my mouth, and we’re kissing for real. It’s hard and hot and unbelievable.

  He stands up and pulls me to my feet, and it’s déjà vu to the club, when he took my hand and asked me to dance, but this time I move into him instead of back into my chair, and press my chest and hips to his. He puts his hands behind my head, wraps his fingers in my hair, and pulls my mouth to him and we kiss again, a long kiss, our bodies so close there’s no air between us, our mouths so close we’re sharing the same oxygen and getting dizzy because we’re not taking any time to breathe.

  And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. He lifts his head and steps back. I widen my eyes and brush the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my spit and his. “Boston?”

  But he looks away. “See you tomorrow, Abby. Okay?”

  “Uh… yeah. Sure. Tomorrow.” My mind scrambles to keep up. Apparently we’re done kissing, and I need to leave. Okay. I pick up my laptop bag and purse, but turn back at the door, my hand on the knob. “Boston—”

  “Good night, Abby.” His voice is firm. He crosses his arms over his chest.