Joy Ride
Nothing. Fucking nothing. You already have the best.
Some people have a bottomless appetite though, so I try to come up with some options he might enjoy when he takes the car for a spin outside Manhattan. He tells me he’ll think about it. When the check comes, I pay, and when the lunch ends, he doesn’t say thank you. As he stalks off into the afternoon crowds, braying into his phone once again, I mouth, “You’re welcome, dickhead. Feel free to never call me again.”
What a waste of two hours. I pick up the pace as I make my way back to my shop, hoping to catch Henley for a few minutes. I find a message from her.
* * *
Henley: I already finished. Do I get a gold star for punctuality?
* * *
Max: Sounds like you earned one for speed.
* * *
Henley: Yes, I can be quite fast. You may have noticed.
* * *
The memory of her coming hard in less than two minutes flashes before me. Not like it’s ever far away, but now it’s front and center, and I’m fucking aroused as I walk to the shop. My mind is an old film reel, snapping over the same frame again.
Henley on the yellow Challenger, her legs spread, crying out my name.
As surreptitiously as I can, I adjust my jeans. The movie camera operator toys with me, switching to the scene with her bent over the hood, one lovely cheek exposed.
She was so willing, so ready, so damn turned on, too.
That’s exactly what I am right now, and it’s going to be a problem to work like this.
I need the antidote, so I stop at Duane Reade on the corner and head to the cold, cough, and flu section of the store. No, I’m not sick—and if I were, I’d make my brother prescribe some good shit since I hate being sick with a passion. But a quick survey of all the potential afflictions, from a twenty-four-hour stomach bug to a phlegmy cough, are enough to make me the opposite of horny. Ah, this is the true Deflategate, thank you very much, cold meds.
My eyes wander to the nearby Dramamine. They’re the orange tabs, the ones she likes.
Ah hell. It can’t hurt for the woman to have some on hand the next time she’s on a boat.
Not with me, obviously, since I have no plans to take her anywhere. It’ll just be wise for her to be prepared.
As I head to the checkout, my shoes seem to stop reflexively at the gourmet aisle. I scrub a hand across my jaw, considering a shelf of treats.
Maybe just one more item.
When I return to the shop, Henley’s gone, but her handiwork has been left behind, and it’s fucking fantastic.
Max: Nice work. I’m giving it a platinum star.
* * *
Henley: Lucky me. I had no idea your reward system went so high.
* * *
Max: I’m quite generous at times.
* * *
Henley: Generous. That’s a good way to describe certain . . .
* * *
Max: Certain . . . what?
* * *
Henley: Parts of you.
* * *
Max: Glad those parts could be of service.
* * *
Henley: I’m giving your shop high marks.
* * *
Max: Anything to improve on?
* * *
Henley: Not sure. I might need another fuel injection before I can answer that question.
* * *
I run my thumb over her last text, stopping on the two words that tell me all I need to know. Might and another. As I read them, something inside my chest that has held me back rattles loose. I know with bone-deep certainty that I want another night with her. I needed to know she wanted it, too.
Knowing it changes everything, but it changes nothing. She’s still the competition. She’s still the lead builder at my biggest rival. She’s still dangerous.
I’m well aware working with the competition on a project is one thing, while screwing her is entirely another. Sex is like liquor; it numbs the judgment center of your brain. It breaks down your guard. It makes you stupid.
But I tell myself I’ll be careful. A two-night stand won’t hurt anything. I’ll be cautious. I’ll keep a seat belt on at all times with her.
And really, don’t seat belts protect you from any damage?
I don’t let myself answer that question. Instead, I answer her.
* * *
Max: Had a feeling you’d want to take the car for another test drive.
* * *
Henley: I do enjoy seeing what sort of maximum speeds we can achieve.
* * *
Max: I’d enjoy seeing a hot ride stripped down to nothing.
* * *
Henley: I’d be amenable to that. And soon.
* * *
Max: I’d be amenable to that, say, tonight.
* * *
Henley: Tonight could be a hard one.
* * *
Max: Now is hard. Tonight is hard. It’s always hard.
* * *
Henley: Ha. Yes. I’ve noticed that, too.
* * *
Max: Seems you have wandering eyes.
* * *
Henley: Perhaps I do. They wander to hard rides.
* * *
Max: Wander over tonight then . . .
* * *
Henley: Might be tough.
* * *
I groan in frustration with that response. She could have a million reasons, but all I want right now is her yes, so I fire off the next text without thinking.
* * *
Max: Wait. Let me guess. You have a thing.
* * *
Henley: I do. I have this thing a lot. I have to go.
* * *
Max: Does this thing have a name?
* * *
Max: Should I call the thing it? Or does it prefer to go by the thing?
* * *
Max: Hmmm. You might want to check your phone. Seems it has stopped working. Maybe all that thinking about my hard ride did it in.
* * *
She doesn’t respond.
That’s my cue to forget about her. No more flirting. No more texting. No more dirty innuendos. I can’t keep playing with fire. A sense of relief rushes over me that it’s over and done with. I haven’t crossed the line again. She’s still simply a one-night stand guilty pleasure. And that’s all she’ll be.
Project Forget Henley starts with a long bike ride with Chase after work, which helps narrow my focus to the sole task of beating my speed demon brother. I do so by about ten seconds.
“Killed it,” I say, panting hard after our twenty miles on the Hudson River Greenway.
“You must be juicing.”
I scowl. “Yeah, I’m on ’roids. You figured me out.”
Chase gives me a studious stare. “You’re still grouchy today. I guess that means you didn’t sort out your little issue?” He grabs my shoulder. “I’ve told you, man. The best doctor’s advice I can give you is that regular intercourse is good for your serotonin levels. Live a little and take the old dog out for a walk. It’ll make you smile again.”
I give him a nice brotherly smack upside the head as we walk our bikes toward my building, the headlights of passing cars illuminating the twilit street. “That is not a problem.”
“Does that mean Miss Monkey Bread succumbed to your charms? Wait. Sorry. You don’t have any.”
“I’ll have you know I’m the motherfucking definition of charming,” I say, but the problem is I don’t know if Henley thinks so. I’ve made the woman scream my name, but I don’t have a clue what she thinks of me other than I’m a cruel bastard and an idiot who can’t locate zippers on combat boots.
But honestly, the answer is she probably doesn’t think of me at all. She never replied.
“Hey,” Chase says as we near my building, “did you ever think of the fact that succumb is a very dirty word hiding in the midst of everyday language? It’s basically suck . . .” He leaves a deliberate pause.