Chapter 13
Dee stays at my place that weekend.
On Saturday, I bring her to the gym with me, looking very come-worthy in my rolled-up boxing trunks, a sports bra, and gloves. She made a few jabs at the speed bag and was convinced hers was broken, but I showed her it’s just a lot harder than it looks.
Delores was proud of herself by the time we left—almost as proud as I was of her. She hadn’t mastered the bag, but she was a hell of a lot better than most beginners.
Then Sunday morning rolls around.
I’m awakened by whispered arguing—that raspy, not at all quiet sound that’s as annoying as frigging fingernails on a chalkboard.
“No—Mom, he’s sleeping. God, would you just stop! I hate when you do this! Fine—I’ll wake him up. Fine!”
Hands poke and push at my shoulder.
I tell myself it’s just a dream.
“Matthew. Matthew—wake up, my mother wants to talk to you.”
My eyes open. And I see Delores isn’t f*cking with me—she holds out her cell phone.
Parents love me—always have. But, my first interaction with them is not usually over the telephone while I’m in bed with their daughter at six o’clock in the goddamn morning.
It’s a little off-putting.
I whisper roughly, “I don’t want to talk to your mother.”
“Yeah, well, join the club. But she’ll keep calling—just get it over with so we can go back to sleep.”
“No,” I hiss. “I’m naked. I don’t want to talk to your mother butt-ass naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a f*cking telephone, not Skype—get over it.” She pushes the phone at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Then she actually presses the phone to my face so I’ve got no choice but to take it. My voice comes out forced—unwillingly respectful—like a class of grade school kids giving their teacher a group greeting.
“Hi, Ms. Warren.”
Her voice is clipped—strong. And I wonder if she has any military training in her background. “Good morning, Mr. Fisher. I am told that you are having relations with my daughter—please confirm or deny.”
I look at Delores incredulously.
She just mouths, “I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat. “Well . . . um . . . not at the moment.”
She harrumphs. “I realize that Delores Sunshine is an adult and can make her own decisions. But given the state of the world today, I would appreciate it if you would indulge me by answering a few questions to ease the mind of a concerned single mother?”
I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. And smirk. “Your middle name is Sunshine?”
Dee hides her face in the pillow.
My attention goes back to Ms. Warren. “Fire away.”
She clears her throat. “Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a crime?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been treated for a mental disorder?”
“No.” But I’m starting to suspect Ms. Warren has.
“Are you gainfully employed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in a structure that does not have wheels attached to it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you fathered any children that you are aware of?”
It feels like I’m being interviewed by the scariest life-insurance company ever.
“No—no children—aware of or otherwise.”
“Do you practice safe sex with my daughter?”
And that concludes the trivia portion of our game show . . . thanks for playing.
I sit up a little straighter in bed. “Here’s the deal, Ms. Warren—I think your daughter’s awesome. I treat her with respect, I care about her, I make sure she has a wonderful time whenever we’re together.” Delores watches me with warm, adoring eyes. “But frankly, the answers to these questions are none of your goddamn business. That’s between Dee and me—only.”
Ms. Warren grunts. Then she says, “Well, it was nice speaking with you, Matthew. Hand the phone to my daughter, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pass it over to Dee.
“Okay, Mom. Yes. I love you too. Good-bye.” She ends the call with a sigh.
Then she lays her head on my chest, wraps her arms and legs around me—and squeezes tightly. I kiss the top of her head and run my hand up and down her spine.
“Please don’t hold her insanity against me,” she pleads.
I chuckle. “You haven’t met my parents yet. Like Ferris Bueller said, every family has weirdness in it.”
“Well . . . the good news is, she likes you. You’re welcome to stay in the bunker.”
“I . . . I don’t know what that means.”
Dee closes her eyes and explains. “A few ex-boyfriends back, Amelia dated a guy that was a survivalist. He built an underground shelter in our backyard. He didn’t last, but the bunker has. She keeps it fully stocked, and the people closest to her are invited to hide out there, when, according to her—inevitably—the government tries to enslave the populace and take her guns away.”
The hum of Dee’s voice is just about to lull me back to sleep . . . when her words finally register.
I pick my head up. “Wait. Your mother has guns?”
Monday night, I walk into my apartment and throw my keys down on the front hall table. And right away, something feels . . . off.
The air feels different. It’s like a sixth sense when you live alone—you can just tell when someone has been in your place.
Or if they’re still there.
Nothing in the living room is disturbed. The same goes for the kitchen and dining room, which I scan as I walk down the hall toward the closed bedroom door. I open it and walk in.
And there, laid out in the middle of my bed, in a pale pink lace teddy with matching garters and stockings is . . . Rosaline.
For a lot of guys, this is a fantasy come to life. Right up there next to a hot, horny chick showing up at your door in a trench coat with nothing on underneath.
But for me? Fantastic fantasy—wrong girl.
Her dark hair falls over my pillow in shiny waves. Her blue eyes gaze at me while her red lips stretch into an inviting smile. “Hello, Matthew.”
“How the f*ck did you get in here?” She doesn’t acknowledge the shocked disdain in my tone. Or maybe she doesn’t hear it.
Her ruby smile stays perfectly in place. “I told your doorman I was an old friend. After a little persuasion, he let me in. You really should complain to the manager. After what you paid for this place, the security is appalling. Although, I suspect at the moment, you’re quite pleased about that.”
She trails her hand down her stomach, teasing the thin fabric of her panties. Although my eyes are tempted to follow her hand, I keep them trained on her face. “And you’d be wrong about that.”
She rises from the bed and stands in front of me, eyes downcast, hands folded—the perfect picture of sexy vulnerability. “I was wrong to leave things with you the way I did. Seeing you again has made me realize how much I’ve missed you. I was hoping, now that I’m back in the city, you’d give me a second chance.”
I’m not going to lie. Hearing her say that is a rush. My ego does a fist pump. Isn’t that what every jilted lover craves? To hear the former object of their affection say that they were wrong? Beg and plead to be taken back?
“You’re leaving Julian?” I ask, stupefied.
She giggles. “Leaving him? Of course not, silly. If I leave, I get nothing—the prenup was very specific about that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my own . . . distractions. You and I can enjoy them together. Frequently.”
A few weeks ago I may have taken her up on the offer. Screwing Rosaline was always a spectacular event. And I’m a guy. Regular sex without attachment is the pot of gold at the end of the frigging rainbow. Something all of us dream about finding but don’t really believe exists.
But here—now—not even my dick is interested. Which is really saying something considering she’s almost naked.
Rosaline steps forward and moves to put her arms around my neck. But I grasp her forearms and hold her at arm’s length. “Get dressed.”
She looks genuinely surprised. Confused.
But before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on my door. And Delores’s squawking, singing voice drifts down the hallway. “How ya call ya loverboy? Come ’ere, loverboy . . .”
Motherf*cker.
This is bad. Like building a house on an ancient Indian burial ground whose bodies are reawakened and really pissed off kind of frigging bad.
I walk away from Rosaline and make my way to the door, going over my options. I could stash Rosaline in a closet or under the bed, but if Dee finds her, I’ll look guilty. I could try to rush Delores away from the scene of the crime, but if she ever finds out why, I’ll look really f*cking guilty.
The only viable choice is to lay it on the line—tell Delores the truth—appeal to her trusting nature and God-given faith in the honesty of her fellow man.
Yeah—you’re right—I’m totally screwed.
I open the door. Delores holds a Dirty Dancing DVD up for me to see as she dances in place. “This is the perfect movie for us! I’m sure you haven’t seen it yet—since your testosterone-drenched eyeballs have been too busy watching action movies and war porn. But lucky for you, I own the director’s cut with extended scenes. We can reenact the ‘lift’ scene. I also do a hot cha-cha.”
I slide out into the hall before she’s done talking and close the door behind me. That’s when she notices the look on my face and stops dancing. “What’s wrong?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “I need you not to freak out.”
Of course saying that is just going to make her start to freak out sooner. Stupid.
“Why would I freak out?”
I try to do better. “You have to trust me, Delores. I swear it’s not what it looks like.”
That’s not any better, is it? Shit.
Her apprehensive tawny eyes shift from my face, to the door behind me, and back again. She doesn’t assure or agree, but demands, “Open the door, Matthew.”
Might as well just get it over with.
I open the door and Delores marches in ahead of me. Whatever she was bracing herself for, she doesn’t find it. She looks around the living room. “What are you . . .”
It’s then that Rosaline comes striding down the hall—still covered in garters and lace.
Because if I didn’t have bad luck? I’d have no luck at all.
“I think you’re being rather childish about . . .” Rosaline stops short when she sees Dee—but doesn’t seem even a little bothered. “Well, this is awkward.”
I grind my teeth. “I told you to get dressed.”
“I thought you were being coy. I didn’t think you were serious.”
I turn my back on her and face Delores. “Dee . . .”
Half a dozen emotions swirl in her eyes—shock, surprise, hurt, betrayal, anger, humiliation. Faith and trust are nowhere to be found.
But she doesn’t run.
And for just one moment, I think I might have gotten through to her. That she’ll remember my promises—think of my actions—over the last several days and she’ll come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m not a cheating dickwad.
I’ll give you a second to guess what she does next. Just to keep things interesting.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
She slaps me. Hard. Straight across the face.
Slap.
Then she runs out the door like a bat out of hell.
“Goddamn it!”
I want to go after her—I will—but first I have some exterminating to do.
With an oblivious smile, Rosaline says, “Now, where were we?”
“I was just about to toss your ass out the door. Still am. I don’t want to resume anything with you, Rosaline. We’re done. Don’t try to speak to me at parties. If you see me on the street? Turn around and walk the other f*cking way. If you ever pull something like this again, or try to interfere in my life? I’ll make damn sure your husband and every society acquaintance you have learns that you’re a conniving, cold-hearted, two-faced bitch. Understand?”
Her confidence evaporates and her expression turns wounded. But it only lasts a second. Then her eyes ice over. Angry, but controlled. Like a rat hell-bent on survival, even if it means chewing off her own leg. “Very well.”
I give her a final glare as I walk out the door. “Don’t be here when I get back.”
By the time I catch the next elevator and make it down to the lobby, Dee is nowhere in sight. I jog out to the sidewalk and search through the sea of busy New Yorkers until I spot her blond head retreating down the block.
And that’s when it starts to rain. It’s pelting and icy, like a giant sky-wide showerhead turned on cold full blast.
Thanks a lot, God. Way to cut me a f*cking break.
I weave between pedestrians—trying my best not to get an eye gouged out by the flurry of umbrellas along the way. When I catch up to Dee, I grab her arm, spin her around, and yell, “Would you stop running! I told you not to freak out!”
She motions back toward my building and shouts, “How am I supposed to not freak out when you’ve got a naked girl in your apartment?”
“Because I’m not up there with her! I’m down here—probably contracting pneumonia—chasing the f*ck after you!”
“Why?”
And it’s then that I realize I’ve asked Dee to trust me—to believe that I’m different from the a*sholes of her past—without really giving her a reason to. Any guy can show a girl a good time—thoughtful presents, fun dates—but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. He could just be putting up a convincing front. Shielding an ulterior motive or a player persona.
To prove you’re not hiding anything, sometimes you have to empty your pockets, open your bag, submit to a pat down. Even if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Trust has to be earned . . . sometimes by stripping yourself bare.
“We dated for two years in college. I wanted to marry her—and I thought she wanted the same thing. But she didn’t. She was cheating on me the whole time with an older, richer guy, and I was too f*cking blind to see it. She dumped me when he got her pregnant. She broke my f*cking heart . . . and . . . and now, I’m so glad she did. Because if not . . . I never would have met you.”
Delores looks surprised. Then sympathetic—but lingering doubt is there too.
“She’s so beautiful.”
I gaze at Dee’s wet, matted hair, her mascara-smeared face, her blue tinged-from-the-cold lips. Then I shake my head.
“Not to me.”
She takes in my words, and after a moment gives me a small smile. I hold out my hand. “Can we please go back inside now?”
She takes it. “Okay.”
We walk quickly back to my building. As we get close, I see Rosaline step out of the lobby door—wearing dark sunglasses despite the weather, an impeccably belted trench coat, with her hair pulled back into a low, neat knot. Her driver holds an umbrella over her head as she walks to the open door of the limo. I don’t bother to watch her drive away—I’m just relieved that she does.
Back in my apartment, Dee wraps her arms around herself, but that doesn’t stop her teeth from chattering. We strip out of our wet, cold clothes, and I fill the double-wide Jacuzzi with water, just short of scalding. Although few things are better than a splashing, slippery screw in a bathtub, that’s not what this is about. I’m not going to get all corny and say I just want to “hold” her—I want much more than that.
Just . . . not right now.
I relax against the back of the tub, my arms on the edges, with Dee’s head resting on my chest, her body laid out beside me, turned toward mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water as it loosens my muscles and warms our skin. The mirror-fogged room is quiet, peaceful—both of us content just to be.
Until Dee whispers, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
I open my eyes, tilt my head so I can see her face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”
I see her smile. She explains, “Good deeds are easy to talk about. But bad things tell you more.”
I inhale a gulp of steam and do a mental rundown of all my transgressions. Then I confess. “I . . . cheated . . . on every girlfriend I ever had, in high school and college . . . before Rosaline. And the few times I got caught, I made them feel like it was their fault.”
There’s no judgment in Delores’s expression. No horror or revulsion. Just curiosity. “Why did you do that?”
Why do guys cheat? It’s an age-old question with varied answers. The simplest is—because they’re guys. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.
Some guys get bored. Tapping the same ass—even if it looks like Kate Upton’s—can get old. For others, it’s a game. The thrill of getting away with something they shouldn’t, the excitement of possibly getting caught. A final few are just cowards. They don’t have the balls to admit to a girl who loves them that they don’t feel the same way. They think they’re shielding her from hurt by letting her believe their commitment means more than it actually does.
“Because I was young and stupid. Selfish. Because I wanted them enough to bang them, but not enough to stop banging other women. Because I didn’t know how f*cking awful and humiliating it felt to be lied to like that.
“Karma’s a righteous bitch, though. After Rosaline . . . then I knew. And I swore I’d never make someone else feel like that again.”
In a messed-up way, Rosaline did me a favor—taught me a much-needed lesson. Made me a better man. For the women who came after her.
For Delores.
I touch my finger to Dee’s chin and bring her eyes to mine. “I would never do that to you. You know that, right?”
Please, God . . . please let her believe.
She searches my eyes, trying to read me—then she gives me a crooked smile. “Yes, I know that.” She lays her head back down against me. “But, I’ll still need a reminder once in awhile.”
“What about you?” I wonder. “What skeletons are in your closet?”
She doesn’t answer right away. When she does speak, her voice is hushed. “I had an abortion when I was sixteen years old. He was my first—good-looking, cocky, came from the better end of town. He said he loved me and . . . I believed him.”
She watches her hand move under the water, creating a ripple effect. “And, I know I’m supposed to have this . . . regret . . . about it. Guilt. But I don’t. It was the right decision at the time.”
“Still,” she continues, “every now and then, I’ll think to myself—I could have a kid right now. He or she would be about nine years old. And I’m not . . . sad . . . exactly, but I wonder what my life would be like, if things had been different.”
She looks up into my eyes. “Do you think I’m awful?”
“Not even a little.” I pull her closer against me and kiss the top of her head.
Her tone is less weighted when she comments a moment later, “I mean, wouldn’t that be crazy? Me—raising a little boy or girl?”
“Do you want kids?” I ask. “Ever?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know—I’m not sure I’d be any good at it. My mom wasn’t exactly the finest example. I don’t think she was ready to be a mother. I was an accident; Billy was a charity case. She loved us and tried really hard, but nothing was ever . . . stable . . . when I was growing up, you know what I mean? She was always changing jobs, trying to reinvent herself, looking for love in all the wrong places. She’s more of a friend than a parent. I’m afraid her inconsistency could be hereditary.”
Even though this conversation has gotten way more serious than I ever would have predicted, I can’t stop myself from picturing Dee as a mom. Cruising the city streets in her heels and halter tops, with an infant strapped to her chest in one of those baby-backpack contraptions.
And in my imaginings, the infant is the perfect blend of us: Dee’s strawberry blond locks, my hazel eyes.
“I think you’d be a great mom.”
Warm appreciation melts in her eyes and radiates from her smile. “Really?”
“Really.”
Delores reminds me a lot of Alexandra, actually. Fierce—fervent in her affection. A giver of tight hugs and plentiful kisses. That’s the makings of the best kind of mom.
There’s no more talk after that. We stay in the tub until the water turns cold, enjoying the comfortable silence—together.
Some women won’t appreciate hearing this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You don’t need love to have great sex. The most fantastic sexual experiences of my life didn’t involve emotions at all. They involved women I was pretty indifferent to, actually. I didn’t know them well enough to like them or dislike them. For some, I didn’t even know their names.
But I knew they were hot—I wanted them, was attracted to them, on a purely physical level.
Lust is easy. Clear. Exhilarating.
Love is messy. Confusing. Sometimes scary.
Lust is powerful. Primal. Driving.
Love is dubious. Transitory. It can f*ck with your head.
I realize this opinion isn’t absolutely exclusive to men—but statistically speaking, guys are much more likely to get satisfaction from a random, emotionless sexual experience than women are.
Google it, if you don’t believe me.
Most women crave feelings with intercourse—they might not even be able to get off without it.
But Delores Warren isn’t most women. She screwed my brains out the first time we went out. Without knowing me well enough to feel anything, except lust. And it was awesome. For both of us. In fact, she seemed to have preferred it that way.
Like I said . . . lust is easy.
But the night after Rosaline invaded my apartment, something changes. Shifts.
Transforms.
I don’t just want Dee to come hard, I want to please her. I want her to feel happy, cherished—in or outside the bedroom. And I want to be the reason she feels that way.
She sighs in her sleep, and the sound awakens me. She’s on her stomach, the blanket only covering to her waist, exposing the flawless expanse of her back. I watch her face and wonder what she’s dreaming. Her features are relaxed, smooth—making her appear vulnerable and young.
Innocent.
And an ardent protectiveness fills my chest, clenching at my heart. My hand touches her first, softly trailing up her spine. Followed by my lips. My tongue. I taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, from her backbone to her neck.
“Matthew.” She sighs. And I know she’s awake too.
She rolls over onto her back, her alert eyes finding mine in the darkness. I push the blanket away, and her thighs open for me. Welcoming me.
I move onto her, chests pressing, thighs aligning, her hips cradling. And when I kiss her lips, it’s so much more than just a kiss. Different than the others we’ve shared.
I want her to know what I feel. I want to show her—with every caress, every stroke—what she’s come to mean to me. And more than anything . . . I want to know I mean the same to her. I want to feel it from her.
I slide into her fully. Her gloriously tight wetness stretches, yields, then clutches at me as I pull back for another thrust. My mouth hovers above hers, our breaths blend, our pants mingle.
It’s f*cking splendid.
She touches my face, and I kiss her chin, her cheek, her hair, her ear, showering her with my newfound feeling. Our movements are tender . . . not gentle or calm per se, but . . . meaningful.
Profound.
Her hips rise up to meet mine, fusing us deeper. I swallow the sob that falls from her lips as she comes before me. I plunge into her, unrelenting, through her orgasm, until I follow with an earth-shattering one of my own.
Her legs wrap around me, keeping me magnificently imprisoned in her embracing heat. We kiss as we come down, nibbling and biting at each other’s lips. I turn my face into her neck, resting my head against her clavicle, breathing in her scent. Her hands skim my arms and settle on my shoulder blades.
A few minutes later, I reluctantly pull out. Dee’s arms tighten around me, so I don’t move off of her. We fall asleep in that same position—with my body serving as her heavy blanket, and hers my supple pillow.