Authors: Judith Arnold
Ned did. The way he touched them, they became prime erogenous zones.
Libby touched him back. His fingertips were blunt, his palms smooth. His chest was firm muscle overlying the thick bones of his rib cage. Free of his work boots, his feet weren’t as big as she’d expected. His hair was surprisingly silky.
She couldn’t imagine he was as aroused as she was—it simply didn’t seem possible—but his body was definitely ready for action.
Kissing her deeply, he slid one hand between her legs. Her body lurched at his touch. One brief stroke of his fingers and she came, so quickly she blushed with embarrassment. Ned’s hand stilled and he lifted his head to gaze down at her.
She averted her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
A roaring laugh escaped him. “You’re
sorry?
”
“Well…that was so fast, and…I just…”
“You’re
sorry
.” He fluttered his fingers against her, nearly making her come again. “Libby, love, by the time we’re done, you’re going to be sorry you were ever born.”
His laughter was contagious, and she relaxed. She understood she could do anything with Ned—even come too soon—and not feel embarrassed.
He kissed her once more, then rolled away and reached into the drawer of his night table. “So we won’t be
sorry
,” he whispered as he unwrapped the condom he’d pulled from the drawer. And then he entered her, took her, filled her so completely she couldn’t imagine ever being sorry about anything ever again. His name fell from her lips as he moved inside her, long, deep thrusts that made her cling to his back and wrap her legs around his hips. She mouthed his name again as he pumped harder, as his hands fisted against the pillow on either side of her face, as he groaned softly and arched his back and grazed her lips with a kiss.
Her climax pulsed through her, and for a moment she felt as if she’d never had sex before. She’d had what she thought was sex, good sex even. But it hadn’t been like this. Nothing in her life had ever been like this.
He shuddered in her arms, his breath escaping him in a broken sigh, then sank heavily against her, his cheek pressed to hers as she cupped her hands around his head and raveled her fingers in his hair. Was he as astonished as she was? As utterly blown away?
After a minute, he recovered enough to raise his head. He gave her a sly smile, then crooned the old Connie Francis song: “‘Who’s sorry now? Who’s sorry now?’”
Laughing, she shoved him away. “Don’t make fun of me when I’m—”
Falling in love with you
, she almost said.
He stopped singing, but he didn’t stop smiling, and Libby
admitted that his smile was one of the main reasons she was falling in love with him, quite possibly as important a reason as what they’d shared just moments ago. “Don’t go away,” he murmured as he lifted himself off her. “I’ll be right back.”
He strolled out of the bedroom, totally uninhibited in his nudity. She wondered what he’d do if he ran into Eric in the hall, then remembered how many times he’d assured her his son was a sound sleeper. She heard the rush of water running in the bathroom, then the flush of the toilet, and then Ned returned, still smiling, still gloriously, gorgeously bare-assed.
He lifted one of the pillows, propped it vertically against the headboard and sat back against it, stretching out his legs, looping one arm around Libby’s shoulders and handing her her wineglass. She leaned into him, even though that heightened the risk that she’d spill wine all over him. If she did, she supposed she could lick it off….
She drew in a cleansing breath. She couldn’t lick wine off him because she had to go home, and if she licked wine off him they’d undoubtedly wind up making love again, and if they did that she might not ever be able to leave him at all. Could a person get hooked from only two exposures to an addictive experience?
“I’m not spending the night,” she said.
He twisted to look at her. “What makes you think I’d want you to?” he asked, then broke into a laugh. “Of course you’ll spend the night.”
“I can’t.” She was absolutely certain about this. Spending the night with him would turn her into a Ned junkie.
He moved his hand up and down her arm, and reflexively, she snuggled closer to him. “You can if you want to,” he said, emphasizing the words to imply that he’d be insulted if she didn’t want to.
She wanted to, desperately. “I couldn’t face Eric in the
morning,” she said. “What would he think if he saw me here?”
“He’d think you spent the night,” Ned said. He sipped some wine, then gave her a squeeze.
She supposed he could afford to be casual about the situation. He faced Eric every morning. She didn’t, and she was sure confronting the ten-year-old son of the man who’d spent the night making love to her would be at best awkward and at worst traumatic. “Maybe I’m not sophisticated enough,” she said, “but I’m not ready for your son to be aware of my sex life.”
“Okay.” He drained his glass and set it on the night table. “I can’t walk you home now because I’d have to get Lindsay to come and sit with him while I was out, and it’s too late to be bringing her back here.”
“You don’t have to take me home. I can get a cab.”
“Oh, right. We get tons of cab traffic on this block at this hour.” He shook his head. “You’d have to walk down to West End Avenue to get a cab, and by then you’re halfway home. And you can’t walk home alone.”
“Why not?”
“I won’t let you.” He smiled. “It’s late. It’s dark.”
“I know.” The logistics loomed before her like a thunderhead. “So what are we dealing with? I’m a prisoner here until the next time your babysitter is available?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, striking a thoughtful pose. “Imprisoned in my home, naked and willing.”
“Who says I’m willing?” she asked indignantly, then allowed herself a chuckle when he laughed. “I could walk home once it got light out. When does the sun come up?”
“Around six? Six-thirty? Eric never wakes up that early on weekends.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll set the alarm for five-thirty and we’ll see how light it is outside.”
“Okay.” She
was
a prisoner, forced to remain for hours and hours in Ned’s bed, forced to sleep with his arms wrapped around her. By morning, she’d be totally addicted, hopelessly inebriated on the potent substance that was Ned. But really, what other choice was there?
He eased her nearly empty wineglass out of her hands and drew her into his lap. “Life stinks sometimes, huh. You’re stuck with me.”
“I’m feeling terribly sorry for myself,” she told him.
“‘You’ve had your way…’” he sang. “‘Now you must pay…’” He planted a lusty kiss on her mouth.
“‘I’m glad that you’re sorry now,’” she finished, then made her peace with the inevitable and kissed him back.
R
eva’s mother telephoned her at Kim’s house around 8:00 a.m., which sucked because Reva and Kim were still sleeping. People weren’t designed to wake up at eight-thirty on Sunday mornings, especially not after a sleepover.
Reva hadn’t expected her mother to call at all. She’d phoned home twice last night, checking in like the good little girl her mother expected her to be, and both times she’d gotten the answering machine. That her mother wasn’t around to answer the phone at eleven o’clock—well, all right, she was still out with Mr. Fireplace. But after midnight?
“I got home late,” was all her mother said about that. If her mom had gotten home so late, though, how come she was up and making phone calls at eight o’clock?
Whatever. She’d probably been doing the nasty with Eric’s daddy. A totally gross thought, but they were grown-
ups. Ned Donovan wasn’t so bad for an old guy. He’d fronted Reva the money to pay for Darryl J’s domain name, so he was okay. If he wanted to get it on with her mother, that was their business, and the less Reva thought about it, the happier she’d be.
None of that excused her mother for calling her so early, though.
“I’m trying to work out the logistics,” her mother said over the phone. “You have to see your father this afternoon. You should probably get home by ten so you’ll be ready when he comes to pick you up.”
Reva rolled her eyes. She sat on a futon mattress on Kim’s floor. Kim had been asleep in her bed, but the ringing of Reva’s cell phone had awakened her. She lay on her side facing Reva, listening to her half of the conversation and making goofy faces.
“You know what, Mom?” Reva said. “It’s silly for Dad to drive all the way uptown to pick me up. I can get downtown myself.” It was time for her mother to admit that she wasn’t a baby. She was certainly old enough to take the subway down to SoHo.
“Your father loves driving his car,” her mother reminded her.
“Yeah, but by the time Kim and I straighten up her room and eat breakfast—her parents are going to make a big brunch and they invited me to stay for it….”
Kim giggled. If her parents made a big brunch, it would probably be sushi and rice noodles, not ham and eggs or waffles and fruit.
“So what I was thinking is,” Reva continued, “I should stay for brunch and then take the subway down to Dad’s place. I know the route.”
“You know the route because you went down to Greenwich Village without my permission last weekend,” her mother reminded her.
So what? Reva was asking for permission this time, wasn’t she? “I won’t get lost,” she promised. “I’ll call Dad and tell him I’m taking the subway downtown. And I’ll call you from Dad’s place as soon as I get there.” Jeez. Maybe she ought to keep her mother posted on how often she went to the bathroom every day, too.
Her mother didn’t speak for a while. Finally, she said, “You have to phone me the minute you get there.”
“The minute. I promise.” Reva sent Kim a thumbs-up. She contemplated asking her mother whether she’d had fun last night, but her mother might think she was prying, or she might be embarrassed because of the specifics of the good time she might have had. “I’d better go,” Reva said instead. “Kim and I want to help Mrs. Noguchi fix brunch.”
“Be careful, Reva,” her mother said. “Not with Mrs. Noguchi—I mean, of course, be careful in the kitchen, too. But on the subway, sweetie. Don’t talk to strangers.”
She rolled her eyes again. “I know.”
“You’re better off standing than sitting next to someone who looks suspicious.”
“Okay.”
“Or smells bad. You don’t want to sit next to someone who’s dirty.”
“I won’t, Mom. I promise.”
“And remember to thank Mrs. Noguchi for having you over.”
“I will.” She struggled not to sound exasperated. If she came across as angry or resentful, her mother might change her mind about letting her take the IRT to SoHo.
“All right. I guess I’ll see you this evening, then. And don’t take the subway home. Make sure your father drives you.”
“Okay. I will. I promise.” She’d promise anything just to get off the phone before her mother rethought the plan. “I
love you, Mom. Goodbye.” She hit the disconnect button, cringed to think she might have been rude, then decided the “I love you” made up for her abruptness.
“She said yes?” Kim asked, sitting up. Even after a whole night’s sleep—well, a half night’s; she and Reva had stayed up watching
Nick at Nite
until about one-thirty—her hair looked perfect, sleek and straight. Reva’s hair was undoubtedly a mess, and she’d have to do major work on it before she left Kim’s place.
“She said yes,” she confirmed as she tucked the cell phone into her backpack. “I can’t believe I was on her shit list one week ago for doing what she’s letting me do today.”
“What do you think changed?”
Mr. Donovan
, Reva thought, but she wasn’t sure she ought to tell Kim about her mother’s boyfriend. The whole thing was too new, and it could fall apart any minute. And then her mother might be heartbroken, and in her heartbroken state she might decide that Reva could no longer use the subway. Reva had a window of opportunity today, and she’d take full advantage of it. And she wouldn’t jinx things by discussing her mother’s love life with anyone.
“I guess she finally figured out I’m not a little kid anymore.” Reva would have loved to flop down on the futon and go back to sleep, but she was too wired. Now that she had permission to use the subway, she wanted to get moving.
Instead of the brunch she’d lied to her mother about, she and Kim breakfasted on navel oranges, rice cakes with honey spread over them and tea with skim milk in it, which Reva felt very cool drinking, even though it tasted disgusting. Then they returned to Kim’s room to ready Reva for her mission.
She’d packed her outfit for today—tight jeans, a ribbed turtleneck and sneakers—in the hope that her mother would let her ride down to her father’s place on the subway. Thank
God she’d also brought her straightening iron with her, because her hair looked lumpy and mussed and in need of some heavy-duty work. She thought about putting on mascara, but with Kim’s parents lounging around the living room, passing sections of the Sunday
Times
back and forth, Reva thought it would be best to add the mascara after she’d left the building.
She departed at about ten-thirty, after thanking Kim’s parents like the polite guest she was. Around the corner from Kim’s apartment, she stopped to apply her mascara, using a window as a mirror. She also dabbed some tinted lip gloss on her mouth. By the time she saw her mother it would be gone. Her father would never notice, and Bony would probably congratulate her for protecting her lips from the elements. Reva didn’t think you could get sunburned lips, but the gloss had an SPF number so she figured she could say she was wearing it for health reasons.
At the 72nd Street station, she raced through the turnstile and flew down the stairs. Her timing was perfect. Darryl J must have arrived just minutes before her. He was still setting up, not yet playing.
A bunch of other people stood on the downtown platform, but Darryl J zeroed in on her. His eyes were so warm, the color of fudge. They made Reva’s mouth water. “Hey, Reva,” he greeted her, pausing as he uncoiled the electrical cord for his amp.
She loved that he knew her—her name, her face, her existence. He treated her like a genuine friend. She’d met him on the platform only once last week, that Monday when she’d found out he was here, because she hadn’t wanted to press her luck with her mother. But Ashleigh had come to see him on Tuesday and had given him Reva’s e-mail address. He’d e-mailed some photos of himself for the Web site, and a rudimentary schedule of when he’d be playing
where—mostly in this particular station, although he’d mentioned in an e-mail that he was hoping to play in Grand Central Station sometime in the near future.
“Have you checked out the Web site yet?” she asked.
He grinned. “It’s sweet, Reva. Is it gonna make me rich and famous?”
“I hope so.” She tried not to gawk at him as he resumed his search for an electrical outlet. He had on baggy jeans, a textured sweater and red cloth high-top sneakers that were retro and very cool. She wished she could help him. Imagine holding his guitar…Or she could assemble his mike stand and test the mike by singing her
Tommy
solo, and he’d be so blown away by her fabulous voice that he’d ask her to perform with him.
The distant echo of a train in the tunnel brought her back to reality. “The site needs some more stuff, though,” she said. “We could use some kind of biography of you. It doesn’t have to be personal. It doesn’t even have to be true. But fans like to know something about a person’s life.”
“My life is boring,” Darryl J said with a snort.
“Yeah, right.” How could someone so talented be boring?
“I share an apartment in Brooklyn. I sleep on a couch. I serve overpriced drinks at a bar three nights a week. If I don’t turn this sidewalk stuff into a profitable venture by the end of the year, I’ve gotta go home and go to college.”
“College isn’t such a bad thing,” Reva said, although the prospect of Darryl J going home—she assumed home wasn’t that apartment in Brooklyn where he slept on a couch—made her heart twist. And then there was the possibility that he’d wind up majoring in something totally awful in college, like accounting. “Where’s home?” she asked, praying it was someplace not too far away. Northern Jersey wouldn’t be so bad, or Long Island or even Rockland County. As long as he was within commuting distance of the city.
“St. Louis,” he said, and her heart twisted again. “Got into Mizzou and deferred for a year to see if I could make the music thing work. That’s the deal I agreed to with my parents. One year. You make this Web site work for me, Reva, and I will worship you forever.”
Reva nearly staggered under the onslaught of information. Mizzou—that must be some school near St. Louis. He would be a first-year student if he wasn’t doing the music thing, which meant he really was eighteen or nineteen—not too old for her at all. And he would worship her forever if the Web site made him a success.
He would worship her forever.
Omigod.
“Well,” she said, struggling to remain poised. “You could invent a biography if you want. You could make it something more dramatic. I could help you. You know, like maybe—” he handed her a coil of cable, and she felt like his roadie, which made her smile “—you could say you were a brilliant scholar, but the call of music was too strong to be denied. How does that sound?”
“Better than reality,” he said with a laugh.
“And another thing…” She held the cable while he assembled his mike stand. “You should have a sound clip.”
“Huh?”
“A sound clip on the Web site. So people can click on it and hear how good you are.”
He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. The train she’d heard rumbling down the tunnel finally rattled into the station, making conversation impossible. It squealed to a halt, and the other people waiting on the platform boarded. A few people got off and glanced curiously at Reva and Darryl J. He adjusted the mike stand’s height while he waited for the train to depart.
Once it did, he said, “How am I gonna get a sound clip? It’s not like I’ve cut a CD or something.”
“You could record it into a digital recorder, and then we could load it onto the Web site.”
“Where am I gonna get a digital recorder?”
Reva thought hard. “I could ask around school. Maybe someone has one I can borrow.”
“You’re gonna borrow a fancy piece of tech equipment, and then you’re gonna lend it to me? You must have some generous friends.”
“I do,” Reva said, although she doubted any of her friends were generous enough to let Reva lend their digital recorders to a total stranger. She mulled over her options. “If I could get someone to let me borrow a recorder, maybe you could come to my house and record a song there. How would that be?”
Darryl J scrutinized her. God, his eyes were so rich. And he’d said he would worship her forever. Until this exact moment, Reva hadn’t understood what love was all about. Now she knew. It altered the way the world appeared, the way it sounded. Everything seemed more vivid: the steel girders, the mysterious puddles on the tracks, the unyielding concrete surface of the platform, the musty scent of the air. Love fine-tuned her senses. The 72nd Street subway platform would be sacred ground to her forevermore.
“Where do you live?” he asked, and this time when her heart squeezed inside her chest, it didn’t hurt at all. It felt wonderful.
“When can I see you?” Ned asked. The question had been running circuits through his head ever since he’d kissed Libby goodbye Sunday morning at dawn. She’d crept out of the apartment like a thief, and why not? She’d stolen a piece of his heart.
But at least Eric hadn’t staggered out of his bedroom and seen her. That surely would have been the end of the world. The end of Libby’s world, anyway.
Ned would have spent Sunday with her, doing clean, wholesome family things—or even dirty rehab-the-fireplace things—but he’d promised Eric a visit to the Central Park Zoo before the weather turned too cold. Eric’s buddy Gilbert had tagged along. He hadn’t shoved anyone, and the boys had had a terrific time alternately shouting encouragement at the animals and acting as if they were too mature for zoos.
Ned had phoned Libby in the evening, and unlike his call after the last time he’d taken Eric and Gilbert on an outing, this time Libby had been happy to hear from him. But their conversation had been cut short by Reva’s arrival home from her weekly visit with her father. Libby hadn’t seen her daughter for more than twenty-four hours, so he’d generously told her to go talk to Reva, and had ended the call.
Now it was Monday, and he was standing in the middle of Macie Colwyn’s loft, and Macie was suffering throes of rapture because her columns had arrived. Ned hadn’t wanted them delivered just yet, but apparently, Macie had gone behind his back and conferred with Mitch, and Mitch reminded Ned of the importance of keeping customers satisfied. “There’s another way you could satisfy Macie,” Mitch had observed, “but since you won’t do that, you may as well get her some columns.”