Reckless (7 page)

D
ante

I
’m standing
in the center of my gutted kitchen when Maren calls. A smirk claims my face. She clearly read the texts.

“Do I have your attention now?” I answer the phone.

“Good god, Dante . . .”

She’s breathless.

“Clearly I’m no poet,” I say. “I’m not that creative, and I know my story was far from perfect, but those are all the things I would do to you. If you let me.”

“Nobody’s ever said those kinds of things to me.” Her voice is lower than usual, more hushed. “You made my body feel things it hasn’t felt in years.”

“If that’s the case, imagine how the real thing would make you feel.” I step past a ladder and over a maze of extension cords. Earlier this year, my fiancée and I parted ways, and I got a wild hair to do a bit of renovating. This place is my pride and joy, and her scent was everywhere. I just didn’t want it to feel like her anymore. I wanted it to feel like home. Like
my
home.

I step out of the kitchen and check the trim work in the foyer, running my hand along the smooth, freshly sanded railing. A trail of sawdust footprints follows me, and I head for the front door to switch off the lights and lock up.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says, her voice louder this time. “You think I’m that easy? You think all it takes to incinerate my panties are a few dirty text messages?”

“That’s not how it works?” I tease. “You called me, remember? I just assumed . . .”

“I called you because sending you a text message telling you ‘good job’ felt too formal.”

“Did you touch yourself?” I ask, point blank, climbing into my car.

“Excuse me?”

“When you were reading
our
story, did you touch yourself?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“If I’m fictionally fucking you, it’s absolutely my business.”

Maren laughs. “Cute. But I’m still not saying.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m going to just
assume
then that you were fingering yourself to the thought of my cock inside you and my mouth all over your naked body.”

She laughs again, and her laughter is sweet, relaxed. I feel like I might be breaking down some walls here, but it very well may be too soon to tell.

“I didn’t touch myself,” she says a moment later.

“Liar.”

“I’m
not
lying.” She places more conviction in her tone this time.

“Still don’t believe you,” I say.

“I mostly couldn’t do it out of principle,” she says with an unapologetic sigh.

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t call me Friday night. You said you would and you didn’t. I even waited up,” she says. “There’s something to be said about a man who does what he says he’s going to do the first time.”

“We didn’t get out of the ER until almost three,” I say. I’ve been sitting in my driveway in the dark this entire time, not wanting to drive away yet because I’m giving Maren my full attention. “I thought I was being noble. It was a respect thing.”

“Respect? You told me to wait up. I did exactly what you wanted me to do.
I
was being respectful of your horny little demand, and it was all for nothing,” she says. “I don’t care how sexy you are or how badly you want to screw me, I don’t do flaky.”

“Oh, come on.” I slick my hand along the steering wheel and then brush my forehead against it. “This isn’t fair. I was only trying to do the right thing, and now you’re punishing me for being a gentleman?”

This explains why she didn’t take my call Saturday.

Maren’s quiet for a second. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“
What’s
not a good idea?”

“
This
,” she says with more emphasis, like I’m supposed to be a mind reader. “Us talking. Fictionally fucking. Whatever the hell we’re doing. We clearly have opposing ideas as to how this is supposed to go. You think I’m supposed to fall to my knees and suck your cock because you’re excessively attractive and that’s probably the way things work in your world, but I’m too busy and too old to be someone’s booty call. I’m telling you, Dante. We don’t want the same things. This isn’t going to go well for either of us.”

“All right, Maren. Go on. Keep making excuses. Keep ‘em coming. I’ve got all night.”

She scoffs through the phone. “I’m not making excuses, I’m being realistic.”

“You’re fucking terrified,” I say, words jagged as I feel the weight of her pushing me away. It stings more than I thought it would. “You want to fuck me, and it scares the hell out of you. The excuses make you feel better about your decision. I get it.”

Maren exhales, as if she’s readying a comeback.

“Hold on a second,” she says.

Her end of the phone is muffled. She’s talking to someone, but I can’t make out the words.

“I have to go,” she says. “Motherhood is calling.”

I groan, reaching for my ignition and starting my engine.

“Goodnight, Dante,” she says, ending the call before I have a chance to respond.

M
aren

“
D
o
you ever wish you were sleeping with a millionaire? I feel like that would solve all your problems.” Saige brushes a pine needle off her skirt as we sit on a park bench in a sculpture park in downtown Seattle. She’s meeting me for lunch today since her office is a couple blocks east of mine.

Grabbing our deli soups from a brown paper bag, I hand hers off. “No. I don’t wish I was sleeping with a millionaire. And I don’t know what problems of mine that would solve.”

“For starters, you wouldn’t be working in a place that pays you ten bucks an hour to file papers,” she says. “And then you wouldn’t be reporting to Keegan, the Swiper Queen of the Greater Seattle Area. Also, you’d be free to pursue your passions, you know? Find a
real
career. You wouldn’t be stuck making pennies, relying on your child support to pay your mortgage.”

“I live comfortably enough,” I say. The pre-nup made sure any Greene children and their mother would never be without. I also inherited the family home in the divorce, a nice three-bedroom in a comfortable suburb, as well as decent-sized savings account and a generous-than-most monthly child support stipend. By no means am I rolling in the dough, but I’m not struggling to make ends meet. Not yet anyway.

“Yeah, but sweetheart, in ten years, that monthly stipend will come to a screeching halt.”

“I won’t be a temp at Starfire Industries forever. It’s just a bridge for me. I’ve been out of the working world a long time. Have to build up my resume again.”

“Yeah.” Saige pouts her bottom lip before taking a small spoonful of lentil soup. “It sucks so bad that you’re thirty-five years old and you’re back at square one professionally. Fuck your ex. Fuck that guy so hard.”

“I wasn’t that happy with him, Saige.” I admit a truth I’ve held onto for years.

She lowers her spoon, slowly turning my way. “What? You two always seemed so happy, at least right up until it all came crashing down.”

“We were alright,” I say. “Some years we were barely hanging on with a thread and a paperclip. Other years the kids were the glue. There were some good times mixed in there. In the end, we were never meant to last. I don’t hate him. I hate the way it ended, but I don’t hate
him
. He gave me Dash and Beck. It wouldn’t be fair to them for me to hate their father.”

“God, I hate how rational you are sometimes,” Saige says, shoulders slumped as she returns to her soup. She stares ahead, watching men and women in a million shades of black and gray file along the sidewalk, briefcases in hand. “Just once, I’d love to see you get really worked up, you know? Like I want to see you get irrationally mad. Super pissed off. Yelling and kicking and screaming mad.”

I laugh. “Why? What purpose would that serve?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I just think you might be internalizing a lot. You never get mad about anything. You’re so even-keeled. I feel like you’re holding everything in, and it’s not healthy. Anger, in moderate doses, is healthy. It’s okay to be pissed when life deals you a shitty hand.”

I hold my cup of soup, the cardboard almost piping hot in my palm, and glance up at the break in the clouds above. It’s been overcast all day, looking like it’s about to rain, but the sun’s beginning to peek through.

“All I’m saying is that if you’re holding anything in,” Saige says, “it’s best to let it out somehow.”

“Thank you, Oprah Winfrey, for this enlightening moment.” I shove a bite of soup in my mouth. “Did I show you those texts?”

“What texts?”

“The ones that Dante guy sent last weekend?”

“Um, no, you definitely did not show me any texts.” Saige speaks as if she’s offended.

I take my phone from my bag and hand it off, and she pulls up my text messages like she’s done it a thousand times before.

The expression on her face morphs from mildly amused, to fully entertained, to completely shocked.

“Oh. My. God.” She hands the phone back. “That’s fucking
hot
. You have to screw him, Maren. You
have
to. If not for yourself, then do it on behalf of women everywhere who currently do not have the pleasure of that man’s undivided attention.”

“That’s the thing though. We have no idea if I’m the only woman receiving his attention right now. A man like Dante probably has an entire iPhone filled with various doe-eyed, big breasted women on speed dial, waiting patiently for their numbers to be called.”

“I didn’t get that vibe from him,” Saige says. “He didn’t seem slimy to me. He seemed confident, not arrogant. And you should know, as your best friend, I would never put your phone number in the hands of some cocky, oversexed manwhore. Gross. I have better standards for you.”

“I made a list last night,” I say. “I called him, and then we talked for a little bit, and then Beck came in the room looking for his backpack. I ended the call, found Beck’s backpack in the trunk of my car, sent him back to bed, and then I made a list of all the reasons why I shouldn’t have sex with Dante.”

“Oh, god. You and your lists.” Saige rolls her eyes, dragging her spoon along the top of her soup. “What’d it say?”

I grab my bag and retrieve a small, hunter-green notepad out of a side pocket, flipping to the page with my newest list and handing it over. She pulls the paper closer to her face, eyes scanning the blue ink scribbles.

I
don’t know
his last name.

He’s eight years younger than me, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

He’s probably better in bed than me.

I’m long overdue for a wax.

He’d be the second guy I’ve ever been with, which makes me feel like a 35-year-old virgin.

I don’t have time for casual sex.

What if he has STDs?!?!?!?

He might think I’m terrible in bed.

He’s
too
good at flirting, and that’s got to be some kind of red flag.

He probably has a MILF fetish. It’s the only logical explanation as to why he’s not chasing after younger, hotter women who don’t bear the battle scars of pregnancy and childbirth.

“Okay. Fine.” Saige sits up straight and clears her throat. “Now you have to make another list. Write down all the reasons why you
should
have sex with him.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t think of any.”

She chuffs. “Whatever. Just try. I can think of several.”

Saige places her soup on a wooden slat beside her and fishes for a pen from her purse.

“Number one,” she says, “he’s really, really,
really
hot.”

I roll my eyes.

“Number two,” she continues, “he clearly knows what he’s doing, as evidenced by the massive blocks of text detailing all the yummy things he wants to do to your naked body.”

Blushing, I bury my face in my hands and pray the couple on the bench beside us aren’t listening to our conversation.

“Isn’t it time to go back? I feel like it’s almost been an hour,” I say, reaching for my phone to check the time. She pulls it from my reach and scoots down a few inches.

“Number three,” Saige says, “it would be a fun experience, and you need more fun in your life. Four. He can probably have any woman he wants, but he wants you. Five. It would make Nathan incredibly jealous, especially since he’s younger and hotter than Nathan. And if Nathan can shack up with a pretty young thing, then so can you.”

Laughing, I grab my phone back and check the time. “All right. Enough of that. I have to head back. I don’t want my future stepdaughter worrying about me if I’m a few minutes late.”

Saige smirks, gathering her things from the bench. “I’m telling you, find yourself a nice millionaire and you’ll never have to work under someone like Keegan ever again.”

Slinking my bag over my shoulder, I give Saige a wave and head back to my office.

D
ante

“
H
ow much longer are you
planning on sticking around?” I ask Cristiano over lunch on Tuesday. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, it’s just feeling a little cramped in the hotel room.”

“In my defense, when I talked to you several months ago about coming to visit this month, you made no mention of your house being under renovation.” My brother shoves a piece of bread in his mouth.

“Yeah, it was a spur of the moment decision.”

“Why don’t you rent a place or something?” he asks. “Or do you really want to live in a five-hundred-square-foot hotel room for the next several months?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. Last I heard from my contractor, he was asking for a two-month extension, which was on top of the six-week extension he asked for the time before that. At this rate, it’s going to be just after New Year’s before I’m all moved in again.

“Want me to find you something?” he offers. “I’ve got more free time than you do. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll check it out and if it’s worth looking at, I’ll give you a call.”

“More water?” our server asks, batting her lashes at my brother. She reminds me of some of the Italian girls who used to run around in our neighborhood back in Jersey when we were kids. Long dark hair down to the middle of her back, a hint of an accent, dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“
Per favore
.” Cristiano’s face lights, his mouth pulling into an enchanting grin. “
Grazie
.”

“Are you gentlemen from around here?” she asks, directing her attention at my brother.

“No, actually,” he answers, shifting his posture toward her. “Jersey raised, but I’ve been all over. This one settled out here. Just stopping out for a visit.”

“Where to next?” she asks. “Anywhere exciting?”

“Heading south,” he answers. “I’ve got more family in California.”

“Sounds exciting.” Her eyes light up and she lingers for a bit, like his stare has a hold on her. “Your food should be out shortly.”

Cristiano grabs another slice of warm bread from the basket between us.

“Does it ever get old?” I ask.

“What?”

“Charming your way into the pants of every woman you meet?”

He lifts his left brow, like I’m speaking gibberish. “You do you. I’ll do me. How about that?”

Chuffing, I check my phone. I’ve been feeling unsettled ever since Maren ended the call so abruptly last night. I get that she’s a mom and her kid needed something, but our conversation was ended without any kind of “Call me later” or “Talk to you tomorrow.”

It just . . . ended.

There’s a ball and there are two courts, and I feel like the ball is straddling the line that separates them and it frustrates the hell out of me.

“Who was that crazy looking chick you were talking to at the hospital last weekend?” Cristiano asks. “I saw you chatting up some girl for, like, two seconds when I was looking for the men’s room.”

“Just some woman from a bar,” I say. I can’t say that I
met
her at a bar because we really didn’t officially meet there. I
saw
her at a bar.

“Having a hard time closing the deal?” he asks with a wise-ass smirk. “Shit, if you don’t want her, give me her number. I’ll show you how to make it happen.”

Scoffing, I take a sip of water and glance around the restaurant. “I’m afraid you’re not her type.”

He sits back. “How do you know?”

“A classy woman like that doesn’t go for couch-surfing, homeless Italian boys.”

“Don’t act like you’re not homeless either,” he says. “Mr. Hotel Noir.”

A food runner rushes our way, a serving tray full of Italian goodness. Bellino’s is one of the best Italian places in all of Seattle, and it’s the closest cooking I’ve found to our mother’s back home.

“Can I get you anything else?” our server appears from behind the food runner, her accent sounding almost thicker this time. “Fresh parmesan cheese?”

“I’d love some,” Cristiano says, locking eyes with her. The way her cheeks redden, you’d think he’s asking for her hand in marriage. I shake my head. Fucking Casanova.

“Just say when,” she giggles, holding the cheese grater over his old world lasagna, raining tiny shreds of cheese over his entrée as they stare at each other and she bites her lower lip.

I wait until the two of them have their moment, and she scampers away before giving my brother an assignment.

“I want you to find me a place,” I say. “Somewhere move-in ready. Furnished. Good neighborhood. At least two or three bedrooms. Plenty of space. Fully updated. Excellent condition. No more than thirty minutes from downtown.”

“Consider it done.”

* * *

I
haven’t been
able to work all day. Thoughts of Maren fill my head, and I keep picturing her face . . .

. . . and then I picture her body . . .

. . . naked of course . . .

. . . and then I think about all the things I want to do to her and how she won’t let me, and it makes me want her a hundred times more.

I bury my face in my hands, elbows sliding across the glass top of my desk, and groan. It’s almost time to go home for the day, and I’ve gotten zero work done because I can’t stop thinking about this little predicament I’m in.

I want her.

She doesn’t want me.

She doesn’t even want a
sample
of me.

She won’t even entertain the
idea
of a sample of me.

Never in my twenty-seven years have I backed down from a challenge, and I’m not about to start now. This self-defeating attitude of mine has to stop.

I’m a take-charge kind of man.

I rarely deliberate more than I have to, and I sure as hell act when the moment calls for action.

Whipping out my phone, I pull up her number and begin to compose a text.

Me: EVERYTHING OKAY WITH THE KID LAST NIGHT? NEVER HEARD FROM YOU AFTER THAT.

Three bouncing dots fill the screen and my heart catches for a second.

And then they go away.

My stomach knots.

I’m about to slide my phone across the desk when I see her name fill my screen.

She’s calling.

I clear my throat before answering with an understated, too-cool-to-care, “Hey.”

The receiver is loud, like she’s outside. All I hear is wind and honking horns.

“Hey, I’m driving home from work,” she says. “I don’t text and drive.”

“Everything okay last night?” I slink back in my office chair and swivel toward the window that overlooks a sculpture park in downtown Seattle.

“Of course.”

“I figured you’d call me back.”

“Oh? Did I
say
I’d call you back?”

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

A faint popping noise fills the background, and it sounds like rain. A moment later, I hear the swish-swish of her wipers. Out my window, I see dark storm clouds moving closer. She must not be too far from here.

“Where do you work, Maren?” I ask.

“Downtown Seattle.”

“Me too.”

The rain in the background intensifies, growing louder and drowning out the sound of the wipers.

“Listen, I should let you go. I have to get dinner for the boys, and it’s raining so hard I can hardly see the car in front of me.”

“I’m calling you tonight,” I say, squeezing in the last word before she ends the call.

She’s quiet. All I hear is rain pelting glass.

“Then I’ll text you,” I say.

“What’s your angle here?” she asks, her skeptical voice nearly drowned out.

“Angle? I don’t have an angle. I just think you’re interesting. And I think you’d be . . . fun.”

“Fun to screw,” she says, not asking.

“Fun to be with . . . in any capacity,” I say. I’d tell her more if she were capable of giving me her full attention right now, but I know she needs to concentrate on driving. “Look, I’ll get a hold of you tonight. I promise.”

With that, I end the call, not waiting for her response because it doesn’t matter. I’m calling her tonight.