Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
To reclaim.
The familiar tightening, the thready leap of blood in a vein on her neck, and the sudden silence that comes as she holds her breath give me permission to release, to give, to give in and give up and give over as we ride each other into a fit of loose giggles and clandestine raunchiness.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever had sex in a closet with, Andrew.”
“I thought you had a gay boyfriend.”
“He was in the closet. Not me.”
We dress quickly, Amanda making little sounds of worry about her sex head, the cock-eyed angle of her dress, the need to rush to a bathroom and straighten up.
“Did we really just do that?” She holds up her palm and I meet it with mine, our fingers cascading down into a grown-up version of a kid’s game, entwining.
“Yes.” I sigh, pleased and relieved, loose and happy.
“We’re a little kinky.”
“No. If we were kinky, we’d have used one of Shannon’s high heels.”
“You’d look good in them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I growl, tickling her.
“I think I heard voices back here,” Pam says from just outside the door. Spritzy barks. Amanda pulls back from me, lips pressed together, eyes wide.
“We smell like sex! If someone catches us, it’s so obvious,” she whispers in my ear. “The closet reeks of us!”
Pam’s voice fades out, followed by a man’s rumble. Sounds like Dad.
I carefully turn the doorknob, not making even a click, and we slip out, tiptoeing, grateful for the carpeted bedroom. As we enter the hallway, Terry greets us with a very excited Spritzy and a lecherous grin.
“Checking out Andrew’s etchings?” he asks.
Amanda blushes.
“Just, um, getting some fresh air,” she babbles.
“In a hermetically-sealed high rise condo bedroom?”
“Right!”
Terry just laughs, nudging Amanda with his elbow as she passes. “Have to get rid of the taste of Jessica in your mouth somehow.”
“Hey,” I bark. Spritzy joins me.
“You might want to go give Dec some support. He’s out there fighting with his mother-in-law.”
“Over the gifts?”
“No. They’ve moved on to her preference for a grandchild.”
“You think I want to wade into that toxic sludge of a conversation?”
Amanda practically sprints down the hallway, muttering, “Poor Shannon.”
“Poor Shannon?” Terry and I say in unison.
“He married her. Marie was part of the bargain,” I say.
“What’s wrong with Marie? I think she’s hilarious.”
I stare at him.
“You have a really unique perspective on the world, Terry.”
“No. I have a normal perspective. You, Dec and Dad are the outliers. You just don’t realize it.”
“You grew up in the same family.”
“And I broke away from it.”
“We still haven’t talked about that. Jessica interrupted us, remember?”
“Now is not the time. Not with Dad here. Not when I have to play nice.”
He walks away.
Play nice?
The glow from sex fades as I watch him walk toward the chattering crowd. I can’t see anyone because of the angle of the apartment’s layout, but I can hear them, feminine voices a mix of pleasant and terse, some high with anger and some low and casual. The men’s voices banter and spar, the resulting blend of sounds just a social signal, one that comes with gatherings like this.
It means everything, and it means nothing.
Straightening my tie, pulling my cuffs down, I center my shirt at my belt buckle and take a few deep breaths.
Closet sex achieved.
Family mystery still unsolved.
Chapter Fifteen
Vince drives a yellow Hummer that has a huge logo on the side that says, “ELECTRIC HUMMERS FEEL BETTER.”
How do I know? Because he pulls into the parking spot next to my Tesla as we meet here at the soccer field.
Yeah, soccer field.
We’re managing my risk aversion with a logical, rational plan designed to increase quality of life. Our outdoor session has been rescheduled for this fine Monday morning.
“Ready for your Wasp Session?” Vince barks out as he leaps down from his yellow perch, clutching a bottle of MCT oil.
“Nice ride.” Like I do at the beginning of every outdoor session, I hand him two EpiPens. He shoves them in pockets on his running vest without comment.
“Thanks.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I ignored that.”
“Why would you drive that thing?”
He points to the Tesla. “Why you driving that?”
“Because it gets nearly two hundred miles to the charge.”
“No, you drive it because Teslas indicate status. It’s like an electric dick.”
I give his Hummer a skeptical look. Pot calling kettle black. “And a day-glo yellow representation of gluttony converted to electric isn’t a symbol?”
“My car says Fuck the Man. Your car says Bend Over.”
I start to argue, but he shoves the bottle in my hand and says, “Drink.”
“Drink…oil?”
“Yes.”
“From the bottle?” I recoil.
“What? I don’t have cooties. This isn’t third grade. Chug some. We’re running an eleven-mile trail along the river. You’ll need it.”
“I need electrolytes, not petroleum.”
He snorts. “It’s coconut and palm based.” He hands me a backpack. “And here’re your electrolytes.” It’s a hydration backpack with a drinking hose that comes out of the back, behind the neck.