Nothing More Beautiful (7 page)

Closing my eyes, I tried to think of what
would
turn me on, sliding my hand over my nipples and down
my stomach to my v-spot, visualizing BlazerFan88’s profile picture.
Over my clothes, I began to rub myself in circles, and blood
started rushing between my legs, but my mind wandered. The picture
changed to the driver and suddenly my body flooded with lust, blood
surging in my head as it had during my last daydream of him.

A second later, Colby-Jack jumped on the bed
and scared me so badly that I kicked him off. As I scanned the
room, I noticed I was huffing air, and I tried slowing my frantic
heart rate. The cat returned a minute later, unshaken by my attack,
curling up by my stomach, his favorite sleeping spot. I crashed not
long after that.

JOSH, OR BLAZERFAN88 AS
he
was also known by, had replied by noon the next day, agreeing to
meet me for dinner on Saturday. I had proposed Henry’s on
12
^th
and he seemed pretty stoked that I’d even suggest
such a place. I liked it because of the huge beer selection, all
labeled by styles. Why he liked the idea so much I’d soon find
out.

The day slogged by, with very few high
notes, cursed by a computer system that wouldn’t cooperate. It
seemed the harder I tried to solve the computer problem, the more
the answer eluded me. The driver occasionally intruded into my
thoughts, but I shrugged them off, focusing on the upcoming date.
By the time Bridgett asked me if I wanted to go out, I was grouchy
and ready to punch something, anything. After I told her I’d think
about it, I ended up passing, opting for a night spent in front of
the TV with Colby-Jack.

I DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH
that
night, anticipation gnawing at me, condemning me to an early
morning fraught with expectations and different visions of how the
date could go.

Butterflies came and went throughout the
day, and I tried to work them out of my system when Danielle and I
went to the gym. That plan failed. Back at work, I tried
distracting myself with the manual for installing the network
correctly at the bakery, but that only made me frustrated. By the
time it came to dressing, I was a nervous wreck. Luckily, Danielle
and Ashley were home preparing for a fancy night out, and they
agreed to put together an ensemble they assured me would “knock him
dead.” They did not disappoint, dressing me in a jean skirt with
leggings, a red V-neck sweater that showed enough cleavage with my
best push-up, and tall boots that added a few inches.

“Wish me luck,” I said, on my way out the
door.

“You’re too gorgeous to need luck,” Ashley
said, slapping my butt as if to say good job.

“Hey,” Danielle called out. “Cut that out.
Mine’s over here.”

I waved goodbye, laughing. The drive from
the Sellwood area to downtown was about as simple as it got, but I
hated the competition for street parking, so I designed a strategy
a few years back, beginning at the parking spaces across from
Irving Street Kitchen on NW 13
^th
. They were normal,
head-first spaces. Parallel parking had given me trouble since I
was fifteen in Driver’s Ed. The night started off on a good note,
with a free space for Eddie.

Eight blocks away, Henry’s sat on the corner
of 12
^th
and Burnside, only a block away from Powell’s
City of Books, my favorite store in the city. I loved the unique
crosswords they sold. The eight blocks in the brisk air leveled my
overwhelming jitters. I walked through the entrance six minutes
late. Josh had texted twice about my ETA. Maybe he had a thing for
punctuality.

The sharply dressed hostess led me to the
back of a rectangular nook. The man sitting at the table looked
like Josh, but had one tweak to his appearance: a short black
beard. He stood and pointed at me with finger pistols. “Maci,” he
emphasized and inflected the second syllable.

“Josh,” I said by way of greeting. He
reached out to hug me, his shoulders forward so that our chests
didn’t touch. I froze for a second, then, like a maladroit
schoolgirl, patted his back and offered a shy smile. Fortunately,
the gauche embrace didn’t last long.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, hurrying
to his seat. “I was pumped to get your message.” He was tall, tan,
with short black hair and piercing blue eyes so deep they verged on
midnight.

I took the seat across from him, placing my
clutch on the table, taking off my coat and scarf, and unrolling
the napkin-wrapped silverware. “I was glad to come across your
profile,” I replied. “Though, in your picture you didn’t have a
beard.” My words were direct, but if they were critical, he didn’t
seem to pick up on it.

He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, well, it’s
Portland, right? So I figured I should grow it out now before it’s
gray, you know, to see what it looks like. What do you think?”

I nodded, faking a pleased smile. “Looks
great.” I was just glad for the hair on his scalp—it was a major
step up from Wednesday’s date.

“Thanks. I think it makes me look more
distinguished.” After a break in the conversation, he picked up his
menu and said, “So, what do you think you’ll order?”

“I
love
their mac and cheese,” I
blurted out loudly, and he recoiled from the eruption.

He settled back in his chair. “I like your
enthusiasm,” he laughed. “Mac attack is always good, but that
applewood smoked bacon cheeseburger is calling to me.”
Mac
attack?
And a cheeseburger?
That meant he was going to
have onion breath for the rest of the night. The night’s promising
beginning was taking a nosedive. I drew in a big inhale and let it
go, relaxing. I told Danielle I’d give him a chance and wouldn’t be
too judgmental, and that’s what I planned on doing.

“They make killer burgers,” I said,
attempting to sound cool. “Hank’s Stuffed is amazing.” I knew from
experience that their signature burger gave a more agreeable onion
breath than the cheeseburger.

He put down his menu, glancing around. “I
love that you picked this place. The service here is amazing.”

The comment bordered on strange, as I’d
never noticed anything spectacular about the service, but then I
remembered an observation Danielle and Ashley had made the last
time we dined here. I scanned behind me and spotted three busty
waitresses wearing tight, low-cut blouses.

Half my lips curled up.
Perv. Fucking
perv.

That soured my mood. I turned back to my
date. “Yeah, good service,” I said curtly. “My friends Ashley and
Danielle love that too.” My tone remained tart. The waitress
returned before I wrung his neck. We ordered: the mac and cheese
for me, and the cheeseburger for him, plus two beers. I started off
dark with an oatmeal stout. He went with a pilsner—another bad sign
for our future.

Our conversation ebbed and flowed until the
food came, mostly small talk and first-date, get-to-know-you
questions, then it fell into a lull. He had taken out his phone,
more interested in texting than conversing. I grabbed my clutch and
withdrew the strip of lactase pills for my lactose intolerance,
swallowing five since the heavy cheese could do nasty things to my
stomach. I felt ridiculous taking them out in public, but a few
seconds of social discomfort was ten times better than the physical
discomfort I suffered without them.

“So, you’re a Blazers fan,” I said when my
second beer arrived, this time a sweeter brown. I was pushing
through the barrier, ignoring the little annoyances, trying to make
the most of the date.

He took his eyes off his phone, his interest
piqued. “Only missed one game this season.” He laid his smartphone
on the table, apparently hoping—the same as I was—that the
conversation was flipping around. “They’re the only reason I have
cable.”

“And what’s 88 stand for?” I asked. “I
thought you were 24.”

“I am,” he answered. “It’s Batum’s number.”
His flat tone indicated his indifference. Apparently my ignorance
surrounding professional basketball really cooled him off. He
collected his phone and began texting again. The vibrations on the
table were grinding away my patience, but it was a date and I
didn’t wish to be as rude as him since I hoped he was paying,
otherwise, I would have gotten up and left the moment the last bite
of mac and cheese slid down my throat. I managed to eat half of it
before my stomach insisted I cease.

We both got boxes to go. The check came and
we stared at it in awkward silence. He made no attempt to reach for
it whatsoever and again retreated into his texts. Minutes passed,
and after he’d ignored me for more than half the night, he said,
“Dutch?” My jaw dropped in astonishment. I’d suffered his company
for nothing.

I made a give-me-a-break gesture that also
acquiesced to his proposal. We both had cash, but he didn’t have
enough for a tip, so that landed solely on me. He was a real
gentleman.

He hugged me outside the entrance and said
he would like to do it again sometime. I laughed to myself.
Not
a chance, douchebag.
I looked east toward Powell’s. They were
open late and I had to walk off a little bit of the alcohol. A new
crossword book or historical romance sounded like exactly what I
needed to turn this night around.

Five seconds later my phone beeped. I
unlocked it and saw the new text symbol, sent by BlazerFan88.
Man you’ve got a sweet ass. I wanted to squeeze it all night.
Can’t wait til next time.
I burst out laughing, so hard, in
fact, that tears formed, ready to spill.

I was so absorbed in laughing at the text
that I didn’t notice the person barreling straight for me. It felt
like I was hit by a car, the speed-walker built like a brick wall.
My mac and cheese leftovers flew straight into the street as I
chose to save my phone with a death grip.

My butt crashed on the sidewalk, flattened,
and all my breath fled my body. I lay there staring up at a fuzzy
silhouette, gasping.

“I
’m so sorry,” came a
voice, sweet and smooth—a clear tenor.

My eyes focused on the offered hand. I
grabbed it and allowed the silhouette to pull me up. My vision
cleared up under the new lighting and I saw whom I’d collided with.
It was the driver. I let out an audible gasp.

“Oh my God, it’s you,” he said, recognizing
me under the streetlamp. “From the accident and the gym. You ran
away so fast the other day.”

I was speechless, caught in the headlights
of his penetrating gaze. His smooth skin was the kind I craved,
without a trace of facial hair. It was the kind of face I wanted to
kiss all night.

“Are you all right?” he asked, putting his
other hand on top of our interlocked fingers.

At the realization of his touch, my body
flushed, my heart thrashing inside, excited. The unknown current
returned, turning on a mysterious urge deep down within me, an
unexplored cavern of lust protected by inhibition. My wits came
back in a startling snap. “Uh—yeah, yeah I’m fine. I must’ve hit my
head.” My tongue got in the way of my words, jumbling them.

“Do you need to sit down for a moment?” he
asked, again genuine concern in his voice.

I shook my head, releasing his hand. “No,
I’m fine. Just shaken up for a moment, that’s all.” I glanced at
the road and my smashed box of mac and cheese. My mouth hung open,
stunned, but no words followed, too nervous. Danielle was right: I
was too shy.

He scanned the road. “What is it?”

“My mac and cheese,” I muttered,
disheartened. I pocketed my phone. “My leftovers.”

“Ah,” he said, noticing the box on the
blacktop as traffic continued to run it over. “I’m really sorry. I
was absorbed in a book description.” He bent down and picked up a
book with a cloaked man on a fiery red background.
A Dance of
Mirrors
was printed in yellow across the cover. “Sometimes I
get so lost in something that I completely block out my
surroundings. If you want, I can buy you a takeout order.” He
smiled, showing off all his teeth, which seemed too perfect, all
aligned and model-white. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your
leftovers.”

His offer took me by surprise. Staring at
his gifted body and visage, I understood what he meant about
getting lost in something so deeply that the background faded away.
A seal brown blazer draped from his shoulders, clinging tightly to
his body. An exact fit. Underneath it, he wore a white shirt with a
green circle sandwiched by two horizontal bars centered on his
chest, a symbol I’d seen before, but I didn’t know its meaning. His
khakis hung from his waist, relaxed. A pair of running shoes
protected his feet.

I found it all intoxicating, put-together
without trying too hard and somehow novel. I battled down new
cravings that I’d never known were inside me, now stirred, as
though he were extricating this strange passion from the darkness
of my subconscious by some magical force, bringing the feelings to
the forefront of my heart and between my legs. I’d never had such a
flutter in my veins.

I felt like a teenager for thinking it, but
he was
hot
.
Really hot.

Without warning, I noticed the heat of my
burning cheeks, and I was held by his gaze, I felt exposed even
though my scarf covered the cleavage-peeking V of my sweater.
How long have we stood in silence?
I wondered, now hurrying
myself to come up with something to say. “No, that’s okay,” was all
I managed at first. “It’s not that big a deal. I was just looking
forward to having it for lunch tomorrow.”

He nodded, polite and composed. “You took
off so fast on Tuesday that I didn’t get a chance to introduce
myself. Vince Forte,” he said, sticking out his hand for me to
shake.

The business side of me took over when I saw
his extended arm. “Maci,” I said, making eye contact, the way I was
taught from an early age, to assert confidence. I withdrew quicker
than I normally would, but the eerie tingle produced when our skin
touched unnerved me.