Chapter Twenty
A week later, I'm walking home from the coffee shop when I run into Amber on her way to her gymnastics class. I don’t have anything to say to her, but I don’t want to avoid her either. I won’t let her have that much power in my life.
So instead of slinging a snide remark, I suck in all my pride, and say, “Hi Amber.”
Without agenda, without anger, without that jealousy that encased me for the last year.
“Hi McKenna. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”
I stay strong. Whatever she has to say, whatever they will throw my way, I’ll manage. I wait for her.
“I wanted to let you know that I had no idea what Todd was up to with the business buyout bullshit. But as soon as I heard last night, I sat him down and told him it was not okay. I told him to back off and stop threatening you with legal battles.”
“You did? You said that?”
“Yes. I made it clear that he was not going to operate our family that way. We make our own money. We don’t try to take money that belongs to other people. And The Fashion Hound is yours, and yours alone. So he spoke to his lawyer this morning to let him know he won’t need his services.”
A brittle piece of my heart softens. I’m not going to be friends with Amber, we’re not about to get mani-pedis together, but I respect her for this.
“Thank you, Amber. Thank you for that.”
“I better get to class.”
“Happy cartwheeling,” I say, and I mean it.
I walk the last few blocks to my house and am surprised to find two delivery men and a large truck waiting outside my steps.
“You McKenna Bell?”
I nod. “We have a delivery for you.”
“Evidently. What is it?”
But the guy doesn’t answer. Instead, he returns to the truck, and wheels a dolly down the ramp. When he’s halfway down I see what’s on the dolly.
My very own Qbert. An arcade Qbert.
“Oh my god!” I clap my hand to my mouth and I jump in excitement.
“Built it myself.”
I turn around and there’s Chris walking around from the front of the truck.
“You did?”
“I had a feeling you might like your own.”
Fifteen minutes later, the delivery guys are gone, and there’s a gorgeous new game in my living room.
“It’s one hundred percent authentic,” Chris says, and then hands me a bag of quarters. “No freebies. You gotta pay this beast every time.”
My eyes light up and I reach for a quarter. “I want to play now.”
“There’s one thing I should let you know, though. I tested it out first. Just to make sure it worked. So you’ll have to beat my high score.”
He taps the screen and shows me his score. It’s insanely high. I pretend to punch him. “Chris! That’s too high. It’ll take me forever to beat your score.”
“We can just christen the game instead then.”
Epilogue
Two Months Later
The cabs honk, and the traffic roars, and everywhere there are people, bustling and coming and going. Chris holds my hand as we weave through streams of New Yorkers and tourists. I’m wearing a black linen dress with cartoonish dog prints smattered across the fabric, and a flouncy skirt that shows off a hot pink petticoat underneath. It’s totally retro and rockabilly, and I love it. So does Chris, who looks sharp in jeans and a button-down shirt as he guides us to the stage door.
He knocks and the stage manager opens the door shortly.
“Hi. You are?”
“Chris McCormick. Here to see my sister Jill.”
The stage manager glances at a list in her hand, taps it once to confirm, and then shows us into the theater, escorting us through narrow hallways that whisper stories of the past, of plays and productions and big, brassy musicals that this jewel of Broadway has seen over the years. Down a well-worn red carpeted hallway to a dressing room, and the stage manager knocks. We are early. Curtain is in one hour. But it’s opening night at Chris’ sister’s show, and she said she wanted to see him beforehand.
She opens the door and flashes a huge smile then jumps into his arms.
“Hey, little sis.”
“Hey, big pain in the ass.”
“I see you haven’t changed.”
“I can still beat you up.”
“You so wish you could.”
Then she turns to me, and she’s gorgeous, with beautiful blond hair pinned up on her head, and heavy stage makeup that accentuates strong cheekbones and dark eyes. She’s wearing a white tee-shirt splotched with paint stains, and a pair of loose jeans. I’m not sure if they’re her costume, or just casual backstage clothes.
“I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you. You’re even hotter in person.”
I blush. “Stop that.”
“No, seriously. I can’t believe my brother snagged a total babe. How did you trick her, Chris?” she says to her brother, and I love the back-and-forth banter. Then she turns to me, and wraps me in a hug. She lowers her voice and whispers just to me. “I’m so glad he found you. He’s mad about you.”
“The feeling is completely mutual.”
“So I’m sure you guys want to see the stage before the show starts,” Jill says, then guides us out of the dressing room, down the hallway, past other actors and stagehands who she says hello to. Then to the wings, and onto the stage.
The set is breathtaking in its minimalist glory, and I gasp. “It’s amazing,” I say, then we turn around and take in all the empty seats in the theater, seats that will soon be filled up with patrons here on opening night of Crash the Moon.
Jill smacks her forehead. “I forgot something in my dressing room. I’ll be right back.”
Then it’s just Chris and me on an empty stage in a Broadway theater.
I turn to him and am shocked to see him down on one knee.
“I’m pretty sure they want to get their stage back soon, so I’m seizing this moment.”
He looks so earnest, so full of hope, as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a dark velvet box. His nervous fingers fumble at the opening, and his light brown hair falls across his forehead. I can already feel my throat hitching and tears welling, as he takes out a stunning diamond in a vintage style cut that couldn’t be more perfect for me.
“When we first met, I thought you were a babe. Then I got to know you and I thought you were the coolest chick ever. And it all started with you wanting me to pretend to be trying out to be your Trophy Husband. So what I really want now is not to be your Trophy Husband, but just to be your husband.”
“Yes,” I say, and my voice breaks, and the tears come, and I’m shaking as he slides a ring onto my finger because I am overjoyed.
“Okay, let’s clear the stage now.”
* * *
I can’t stop looking at my ring. I don’t think I will ever stop looking at it. The theater fills, and soon the overture begins, and I spread open the Playbill and point to his sister’s name.
“Look. There’s your sister. Look at the role she’s playing.”
“I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Totally,” I say. “Hey, do I have to take your name? Because McKenna McCormick would be pretty silly.”
“Take my name or don’t take my name. All I care about is that you’re mine forever. For always.”
“I am.”
Then the music swells, and the sound of the orchestra fills the theater, and I hold hands with my favorite person in the world as the musical begins.
And that is what he’s saying. Because right here, right now, I am with him. I shift closer, and he holds me tighter, and it’s getting increasingly harder to concentrate on anything but his touch.
I try though, tapping the playlist. “Killing Me Softly by the Fugees. I love that. I am telling you, that is how that song was meant to be sung.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Same goes for Physical by Jane Black. So much better than Olivia Newton-John’s version, don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah.”
“She did to that song what Aretha did to Otis Redding with Respect. ‘That girl done stole my song,’ is what he said.”
I laugh, then look at his playlist again. “Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Love that version.”
“It’s so haunting, don’t you think?” I look at him, seeing something, a passion, a spark, in those amazing green eyes of his. “I don’t think there is a more beautiful song. I love it every time I hear it.”
I enjoy hearing him talk about music, open up a bit about what moves him. I love that he thinks Hallelujah is a beautiful song, and not just because I happen to agree. I love that he loves it because that shows he has passion, he has feeling, he can be moved by a song. I love his clothes, and I love his hair, and I love his beautiful face, and his strong hands, and the way he touches, and if this keeps up there won’t be enough room inside me for all of the feelings that I can barely contain. It’s like a waterfall, how suddenly this rush has come over me, and I want to be close to him.
But I am so scared, and I am so good at finding ways to bat those feeling aside.
“You know what I would name my band if I were in a band? Cult of the Neon Santas. So that’s what I named my wireless network.”
“Bet that gets all your rock star desires out of your system. Mine would be Pizza for Breakfast.”
“I love that name and having that on the menu,” I say, then take a drink of my grapefruit and vodka. “You want to know why I’m not a rock star, Chris?”
“Why are you not a rock star, McKenna?”
“It’s not because I can’t sing. It’s not because I can’t hit a note if my life depended on it. And it’s not because I can’t play a guitar,” I say, layering in a pause for effect. “It’s because I can’t stand being in a car for more than one hour. It would make me crazy having to drive all over this country from gig to shining gig.”
Chris laughs, then tucks a strand of my hair back behind my ear. “You’re funny, McKenna.”
I’m funny. He says I’m funny. I feel like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer when Clarice tells him he’s cute. Rudolph scampers off, joyous and happy, shouting, “She thinks I’m cute! She thinks I’m cute!”
I could so fall in love with him. I could fall in love with him in a heartbeat. He brings his other hand to my waist, and pulls me in close. He’s seated on the bar stool, and I’m standing as I slide into the V between his legs, his firm thighs now on either side of me. The distance between us narrows, and the temperature rises. Like this, with him so close, I can tell how much he wants me. As much as I want him. I am turned on beyond belief, my skin is so hot, and my body is aching all over with the need to be touched, and he knows it. And just like that, the mood between us here at Circa Rose shifts. It’s no longer flirty, or chatty, or get to know you. We’re no longer a guy and girl confessing to crushes and likes. As he plays with the waistband of my skirt, his hand dipping inside, stroking the bare skin of my hips just above my panties, we are a man and a woman who want to get the hell out of here. The air between us is electric, like the moments before a summer storm.
“We don’t need to shoot that promo anymore, do we?” he asks, and his voice is different now too. It’s smoky and low, and as he brings me in closer, I can tell he’s gone to the same place I’ve gone to. Desire. And then the hope that we can take this contact to another level.
“I was really hoping to see your fancy studio though,” I tease.
“It has a nice couch.”
“We could do a lot on a couch.”
“It’s ten blocks away.”
“That’s far,” I say, and I’m keenly aware of how my voice has become a ragged whisper. He has to know what I want right now. Him. His green eyes are dark, shadowed with lust and staring intensely into mine. He’s waiting for me to say more. “But I think I really want to see that couch.”
“Good, because I would really f*cking love to make out with you properly right now.”
There is no option to do anything else. There is no way I will go anywhere right now, but to this studio that’s ten blocks away. I cannot conceive of doing anything else in this moment but being alone with Chris. He takes my hand, gripping it tight, and guides me to the front of the bar, then the sidewalk. In seconds flat, he’s hailed a cab.
“That’s no small feat to hail a cab quickly in San Francisco,” I say as we slide inside.
“It’s part of the guy code. All the cabbies in the world have this special alert to show up quickly when a guy really needs to be alone with his woman.”
I start to laugh, but my laughter is smothered by his lips on mine, and soon I’m grabbing at his shirt, and he’s cupping the back of my head, and we are a fevered picture of two people who can’t get enough of each other. Then the cab stops, Chris pays, and we’re at the door of a three-story brick office building that’s dark except for one light in the lobby.
“This isn’t where you shoot your show, right?” I ask as he fishes in his pocket for the keys. My hands toy with the waistband of his jeans.
He shakes his head. “No. The network’s over in the Dogpatch, near the other TV shows shot in town. This is just a tiny little studio for pick-ups, promos, quickies.” He winks at the last word as he unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
Using his cell phone for light, we walk quickly up a darkened stairwell, then Chris pushes open a heavy door that leads into a short hallway. He flicks on the light switch. At the end of the hall is a door with a white lacquered sign that reads Fish Out of Water Studios.
“Clever name,” I remark.
“Like a band name. Or wireless network name,” he replies as he opens that door and turns on the light. The space is split in two by a glass window. The studio itself is beyond the glass and it’s tiny – but even in the dark I can tell it has a green screen on one wall, a camera, and lights. We’re in the waiting area and there’s a desk with a desk calendar, a computer and pens, and the aforementioned couch.
But we don’t make it to the couch. Instead, I back up quickly against the wall and pull him close to me, my fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on his belly. “We can’t go all the way,” I say.
“That’s fine.”
“I’m just not ready.”
“It’s okay. We don’t have to. Whatever you want to do is fine, but I just want you to know this. The real reason I agreed to do your contest wasn’t to promote my show. I couldn’t care less. I did it because I wanted to be in the running. I want to be the only one in the running. I want you.”
“You are. The only one,” I say, and I’m nearly breathless as he grazes my arm lazily with the tips of his fingers.
“Good. Because I’m not even thinking about the contest anymore.”
“You’re not?”
“Not in the least.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He looks me straight in the eyes, disarmingly, holding my gaze. “What I want to do to you now.”
I can feel the soft little hairs on my arms standing on end. “What do you want to do?”
He lays a hand on my bare leg. His hand is warm, his skin is soft, he feels good. “This.” His voice is strong. He’s not playing around. He’s just a man speaking his mind.
My back is to the wall, and he’s looking at me, and his hand is on my thigh, tracing the edge of my short, short skirt. He raises an eyebrow as his fingers cross over, slipping inside my skirt. It feels so good, I want to cry. I haven’t been touched in so long, I nearly forgot what it can do to a girl. My whole body feels alive, as if every part of me is reaching for him, longing for him.
“It feels so good,” I tell him.
“You feel so good. Don’t take this the wrong way. Don’t take this to mean I don’t like you, because I do. But I have totally wanted to get in your pants since the day I met you.”
“Yeah. I think I can take that the right way.”
He moves his hand higher, inching so close to my inner thighs, where I’m throbbing for him. There’s no other way to describe it. Because I am simply dying to be touched by him. He makes me feel so wanted, so desired, and so cared for, it’s intoxicating. I’m so turned on by him, pulsing with all these feelings that collide inside of me at once – the pure physical desire, but then the way my heart feels unfrozen with him, un-angry. The way it feels a crazy kind of joy that I could live off, that could feed me. His touch could too. His hands are strong and insistent, but gentle in their own way too as he traces the outside of my panties. I am racing right now, and my panties are damp, and he smiles a wicked little grin as he touches them for the first time.
“That’s f*cking awesome,” he whispers in my ear. “I love how wet you are.”
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag, Chris. You turn me on something crazy.”
“Good. Because I’ve been thinking about doing this. I’ve thought about this when I’m in the shower,” he says, and I might as well rocket into another world of pleasure. He just told me he’s gotten off to me. I didn’t think it were possible to feel any more heat, but I am aflame.
“You think about me in the shower?”
“I have had many, many thoughts about you. I have touched you in so many ways already,” he says, his voice, low and dirty in my ear. The ache between my legs intensifies, and I am longing for him to touch me, to know what he’s done to me.
“Like how?”
“I’ve tasted you. I’ve touched you. I’ve been inside you, and now I want to feel you for real.”
I might swoon with desire, but there’s no time to do anything but gasp, as he slides his hand inside my panties, and an involuntary moan escapes me at the first touch. Oh my god. This is what it feels like without batteries. This is what it feels like with someone else’s hands. This is what it’s like when someone wants to touch you as much as you want to be touched.
“Chris,” I say in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“I’ve thought about you too. I’ve thought about you touching me.”
“You have?”
I nod. “Yes. Before our first Guitar Hero lesson. You made me come,” I say, and it’s a hushed and hot confession. The look in his eyes is one of lust and heat, and it’s about the sexiest a man has ever been.
“How? How did I do it?” His voice is rough, full of unchained desire.
“You went down on me,” I whisper.
He nearly growls at my admission. “And you tasted spectacular. Because I was making you come the night before too. By licking you, by going down on you and you were grabbing my face and pulling me closer,” he says in a husky voice. “God, I am dying to make you come right now.”
His words turn me molten, and I close my eyes, and breathe out hard as he grazes me with those strong fingers. I shift my stance, so my legs are open wider, while my pink boots are pressed firmly on the ground. He moves in closer, his fingers gliding across me as he presses his body against me. I grab hold of his hip with one hand and angle him so I can feel how hard he is against my thigh, as his fingers slide across my silky wetness.
I breathe out harder, whimpers and sighs falling from my lips with abandon. I can’t pretend any more. I can’t fake it anymore. I can’t be cool, cold, business McKenna with Chris. Not like this. Not as the world tilts away, and I am reduced to one exquisite point in my body, as I arch into his hand.
He doesn’t even need to slide a finger inside me. There’s no need, because he’s so good, and I’m so ready, that the way he works me in a perfect rhythm, up and down, and then there, right there, where I want him, where I start singing his praises over and over, is all I need, all I want, all I know right now. I am gasping and panting and my hips rock into his hand.
“You are so hot, McKenna. You are so ridiculously hot all the time, but especially right now,” he whispers to me. “The way your lips are parted, and your eyes are closed, and your body moves against me. I’ve thought about doing this in your friend’s car the other night. You have no idea how much I wanted to touch you.”
I feel so vulnerable, as if this moment is a line in the sand, and it is. Because I’m going to come any second, I am going to come with this man, this former candidate, this possible boyfriend, this person who has entered my life in the most random of ways, and who I could never resist, and I am only going to want him more and more and again and again.
“Chris,” I say, my voice breaking. “You say those things, and you’re going to make me come soon.”
“I want to bring you there, babe. I want to make you come hard for me and say my name,” he says, and as I feel myself building to that delirious point of no return, I grab his hair, his soft surfer boy hair that falls through my fingers, so unbelievably soft.
I hold onto him as I squeeze my eyes shut from the sensations that topple through me. I am not quiet, I do not muffle my sounds, I don’t hold anything back, as I say Chris’ name over and over and over as the first orgasm I haven’t given myself in ages crashes through me. And moments later, even as the blissful aftershocks radiate, all I can think is I wasn’t waiting for him, I had no way of knowing he’d come into my life, but he was worth waiting for.
“I’m so glad you wore a skirt tonight. Can you always wear short skirts, so I can get you off in studios, or cabs, or wherever we are?”
I finally open my eyes and I’m sure I’m glowing. “Who would have thought that you could be such a cute blusher and such a dirty talker?”
He smiles with pride. “You bring it out in me. Both.”
Now, I may not have had sex in a year, but I’m not the Virgin Mary, and I’m not a prude, and I’ve never been one to leave a guy hanging, so I tell him I want to return the favor.
“I want to touch you.”
“Right here?”
“Well, you did me right here in your quickie promo studio. Shouldn’t you get the same star treatment?”
“I could argue with you, but somehow I think it would be pointless.”
“Do you want to argue with me?”
He shakes his head as I press my palm against him through his jeans. He moans, and the sound of his pleasure make me happy, ridiculously happy. I like Chris so much, I want him to feel good. I want to bring him to that same place he brought me, and some things are like riding a bike.
“Have you pictured this too?”
“Yes.” His voice is low, and his eyes sear into me with his one-word answer.
“You’ve imagined me touching you?”
“Yes.” I can hear the need in his voice.
“And more?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine, everything in his intense gaze, his voice, the strain of his erection against my hand, telling me what I do to him. How much he wants me. His desire turns me magnetic, and I want to crash into him. Because I want to be wanted. I want to be wanted like this. By him.
“You’ve thought about me going down on you?”
He breathes out hard. “I’ve thought about your lips on me,” he says, as he runs a fingertip against my top lip. “These lips of yours…”
I take his finger into my mouth, and he curses, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head as I tease him.
“McKenna,” he says, hungrily.
“Yes, Chris?” I ask, as if I don’t know the answer.
He brings my face close to his, his forehead against mine, and he whispers hoarsely. “Please touch me.”
I kneel down, unzip his jeans, lower his boxer briefs, and then enjoy the view. He’s so hard, and if I were the kind of girl who liked to kiss and tell I could totally compete with my sister right now, but I no longer want to kiss and tell. I no longer want the world to know what I’m up to. I only want him. I look up at him.
“I like what I see,” I tell him, a glint in my eyes.
“Good.”
Then I take him in my mouth, and he groans, and the noises he makes are music to my ears. I love the way he responds to my lips, to my tongue, to my mouth on him. I love how he says my name as I take him in further, and wrap a hand around him too, and it sends me into another stratosphere of pleasure, as if I could come again without even being touched, as his hands thread through my hair, grappling to hold on, and he says my name in this sexy, heady voice as he comes.
Soon, we straighten ourselves out, and head down the hall, separating briefly for bathroom breaks. Then I rejoin him and we leave the building together, holding hands. Out on the street, the night air is chilly. I shiver, and he pulls me in close as we walk.
“I like dating for real. Are you free all weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow, I want to take you to a karaoke bar in Japan Town that you’ll love.”
“I love karaoke.”
“But there’s one condition.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively.
“You need to call the contest off.”
I smile. “Obviously. It’s so over, it’s beyond over. I mean, I was totally going to tell you that. I was planning on saying that all night, but I was having such a good time dating you.”
“And other things.”
“And other things,” I add.
“Good. Because I’m not sharing you, and I’m not competing with anyone, and I definitely don’t want you dating anyone besides me.”
I part my lips and am about to say “I’m yours.” But I can’t quite go there yet. Instead, I nod, and say “The next Fashion Hound will be the announcement that I don’t need or want a Trophy Husband anymore.”
“Can I be your trophy boyfriend?”
Boyfriend. There’s that sweet, magical word again. There’s the word that has mattered, the word that I wanted, but I let another word get in the way. Because the truth is I know what I want. I’ve known since way back when I first went trolling for a Trophy Husband on Craigslist. I knew then I wanted a boyfriend, not a husband. Now, I just know who I want that boyfriend to be.
I am all grins, and I’m sure that this is what happy looks like as I say yes.