When he strokes my back, the sensation makes me moan. This is unnatural. I want to tear his shirt in half, so I can press my cheek to his bare chest. I want to bury my nose in his neck and overdose on his scent. I want to straddle him, and ravage him, and have him ravage me in return, and I want it all right the hell now.
I dig my fingers into his back as my common sense fights my animal instincts. None of what I want to do to him is appropriate, and yet part of me thinks it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m dizzy, and blurry, and...
Oh, my God.
Realization hits me like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky.
I’ve only felt like this once before, and it was anything but natural. Asha once dragged me to the after-party for an off-Broadway play, and we unknowingly downed test tubes filled with shots of Molly, otherwise known as liquid ecstasy. I’d felt like this then. Too full of sensation but desperate for more. It turned me on so much, I hooked up with a geeky guy in glasses who was on the stage crew. I nearly destroyed him. That night I was insatiable, and that’s exactly how I feel with Max. Like I could go ten rounds with him in the Sexcathalon and still be left wanting more.
I pull back and look up at him. “Jesus, did you ...?”
He pulls his body back, and I swear I see a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Did I what?”
Disorientation floods me as I stare up at him. How the ever-loving fuck does he become more attractive with each passing second?
“What was in that drink you gave me?”
“Gin, tonic, lime. Why?”
God, he plays innocent so well, but I know that what I’m feeling isn’t right, and whatever he spiked my drink with is powerful. Too powerful to fight. Is this his secret weapon? He was supremely confident he could make me fall for him. Could it be a little chemical helper has his back?
Now that I think of it, this all started back in the club. He must have dropped something into the beer I had in his dressing room. Sly bastard.
“Hey, you okay?”
It has to be drugs. Nothing else makes sense. At least this way my hair-trigger emotions and arousal overload have a viable explanation.
“Oh, you’re good,” I say as I put my hands on his chest and push away. I’m still dizzy from his proximity as I look around for my purse. Then I realize I didn’t bring a purse. “Just not quite good enough to fool me.”
“Eden?” I head toward the door, but within three strides, he’s in front of me. “Hey, wait up. Where are you going? ”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Do you think I’m stupid? That I wouldn’t figure it out?” I watch as his face morphs from confusion to realization, and finally lands on shame.
“It wasn’t intentional.” I step around him, but he catches my wrist. “Eden, let me explain –”
I look down at his hand then back up to his face. “I’m vetoing this date and you. Now, let me go.”
With reluctance, he releases me then pulls the door open, and I give him one final glare before escaping.
ELEVEN
Manic Monday
“Goddamn asshole!”
I slap at the printer as I try to wrench my crumpled document from its stupid, electronic clutches. “Let ... the fuck ... go! Bastard!”
Large hands close around my shoulders. “The poor, innocent printer was beaten so viciously by its human master, it never recovered, and it never forgave. And thus, the war with the machines began.”
I slump in frustration. “Tobes ...”
“It’s fine, Eden. Just step away from the equipment, okay? You’re in no state to handle this.” He gently moves me back then bends down to get a better look at the paper jam. “So, is this regular Monday-morning rage? Or is there something else going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”
“Sure. That’s why you look like you slept here and have yelled at nearly everything that’s crossed your path, including your phone, the vending machine, and now the printer.”
“I have not yelled!”
When he turns to me and raises his eyebrows, I let out a breath and say much more quietly, “Okay. Maybe I yelled a little.”
“Do I need to go grab some therapy brownies? Or does this have something to do with your story?”
He gives a final tug, and the mangled remnants of my document pull free. He looks them over. “Wait, this isn’t what you’ve been working on. It’s the story on the street artist you were telling me about. The one who penises potholes.”
I take it from him and ball it up before tossing it into the recycling bin. “Yeah. I thought I might be able to prove my worth to Derek with something other than the Mister Romance story.”
“And you want to do that because ...?”
I shrug and reload fresh paper into the machine. “He’s ... well, he’s an impossible man to deal with.”
“Uh huh. Impossible in what way?”
“All the ways.” I don’t tell him that I suspect he drugged me last night, or about my trip this morning to my friend who works in a lab, so he could test my blood. Saying it out loud would make it all too real, and don’t want it to be. I think some part of me was rooting for Max to change my mind about him, but this morning I’ve all but given up hope. I’ve rolled the events of last night around in my memory time and again, wondering if it’s possible my extreme reaction was all in my head, but I don’t think it was. Feeling that much for someone I hardly know can’t possibly be natural. I don’t think Max is a rapist or even sexually assaulting anyone, because God knows, he’s got more physical boundaries than a child care worker. But even if he’s just slipping his ladies something to relax them and make them feel good, it’s still wrong. And illegal.
All of a sudden, the loyalty his clients display is understandable. They’re all drinking the Kool-Aid. Literally.
I shove the paper tray back into the machine as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see the fourth text Max has sent me this morning.
<We need to talk. Meet me for lunch.>
“Nope,” I say and shove the phone back into my pocket.
“Wow,” Toby says. “Who’s on your shit list?”
“No one. Don’t worry about it.”
“If you say so.” He leans over my laptop and prints the document again. “But if I were that guy and valued my balls, I’d steer clear of you for a while.”
He walks back to his cubicle as I slump into my chair and watch the printer spit out my pages. He wasn’t wrong about me looking like I slept here. I hadn’t felt like facing Ash last night, so I came here and worked off my excess energy by writing.
Fueled by my experience with Max, I pumped out six-hundred words on the Brooklyn parking fine con, and a thousand words on the pothole penises. I figured if I could use them to convince Derek of my value as a journalist and drop Max and his whole romance routine, I’d never have to see him again. Depending on the results of the blood test, I also have to decide whether to go to the police. All of his messages this morning tell me he knows he’s busted, but I don’t want to confront him until I have all the facts. Besides, I’m feeling too raw right now to even see him.
When the printer finishes, I staple my articles together and march into Derek’s office.