“Bonus day!” Matt cheered. “The firm never announces it in advance, so people don’t complain if it’s a day late or something.”
“Holy shit! I figured we wouldn’t get them until January!” I exclaimed.
“I’m going to get a refill,” Sam announced, taking off toward the bar.
“Where’s Marcie?” Matt panned the room in slow motion.
“Off doing what she does best—hobnobbing with management.” Peter cocked his head toward his wife, chatting with Mike Baccard, who was wearing a double-breasted pinstripe suit and horn-rimmed glasses. I had only seen his picture on the bottom of press releases and in the firm Facebook, but never seen him in person. He had classic male-pattern baldness and, at well over six feet tall, a commanding presence, in a room full of people with presence.
“Can I give you a piece of advice?” Matt asked. I nodded. “You and Sam have a joint checking account, right?”
Peter coughed, looking uncomfortable, and I shook my head. “Why would you think that we do?”
“Because his eyes lit up when I mentioned your bonus.”
Had they? That didn’t seem like him. I bit my lower lip. “So what’s your advice?”
“Take half your bonus and be practical. Pay off loans, put it in savings, pay your bills. Whatever. Take a quarter and leave it in your checking account.” He paused and smiled at me. “And take a quarter and blow it on yourself. Only yourself.”
“That’s good advice,” Peter agreed stiffly. My eyes bounced from Peter to Matt. Remembering what Jordan had mentioned about their personal relationship, the tension between them was suddenly obvious to me.
“I want those,” Matt announced as he left us and stalked over to a server balancing a silver platter on his palm.
Watching Matt throw his drink down his throat before taking a lamb chop, Peter and I stood in silence, but I felt his energy pulling at me. I had spent so much time around him and on the phone with him lately that I’d assumed my attraction to him must have dissipated, but I realized then that it had only been hidden temporarily by documents and deadlines. I just met his wife! I reminded myself. I should not be thinking about him like this. But without the pressure of an immediate deal-related deadline, the tension and the tingling had reappeared at the base of my spine.
“Matt’s enjoying himself,” I said, trying desperately to distract myself from the warmth spreading through my abdomen.
Peter shrugged. “Matt never used to drink. This place is strange. You develop a reputation, right or wrong, and then people sort of make you into it. Everybody now expects Matt to party. He’s like a caricature of himself. I guess we all are.”
I watched a group of my fellow junior associates surround Matt, who gesticulated wildly while he narrated whatever story he was telling and they all threw their heads back in laughter.
“All of us?” I asked Peter.
He locked his eyes with mine, throwing me off balance again.
“Carmen’s the tough one, Kevin is the sweet one, Derrick is the out-of-control one. All the partners identify you guys by an adjective for convenience’s sake. But it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
I opened my mouth to speak but closed it, needing to swallow down the anxiety that came from knowing I was about to train Peter’s discerning eye on myself.
“Which one am I?” I asked.
“Skippy,” Peter answered, as though it were obvious.
“No. I mean, what’s my adjective?”
“That is your adjective. Prissy, proper, perfect, ready for the country club,” he goaded, allowing a smile to creep into the corners of his mouth.
“That’s not me at all!” I protested.
“No?” He raised an eyebrow.
“What are you?” I asked.
Peter thought for a moment. “Happy,” he said flatly, draining his scotch. “I need air. Come.” He didn’t look at me, just turned and walked toward the exit. My heart thudded as I scanned the ballroom. Carmen was watching me intently as Sam ordered another drink at the bar. He must be at least four drinks in by now, I thought. I held up one finger to her, indicating I’d be right back, as I followed Peter down the plush carpeted hallway. There was a brief moment of silence, with nobody in front of me to navigate past, when I contemplated running back into the safe cacophony of the ballroom, with its deal talk, small talk, and slurred words.
“I need something from my car.” Peter’s voice pulled me back to the hotel corridor. He still wasn’t looking at me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I continued to lag behind him, my legs fighting me. I stared at the back of his pants, snug around his upper thighs. He turned to me, finally meeting my gaze. “It’ll only take a moment.”
I managed an affirmative blink and took a large gulp of wine. My heart rate increased as I attempted to convince myself that I didn’t know what was happening. I took another, longer pull of my drink, trying to create an excuse for what I was about to do. The voice telling me that it was inappropriate to get into Peter’s corporate car was drowned out by the luscious adrenaline of misbehaving, of being bad, of escaping the boring ballroom and the buzzing cell phone in my purse. I suddenly had the urge to blow up the life I had carved out for myself, and join the ranks of those to whom the rules did not apply. I drained my glass and placed it on a table in the lobby, then followed Peter through the main doors.
The air outside the Pierre was biting, and Fifth Avenue was completely desolate except for the line of black cars and the drivers leaning against them, curls of smoke billowing up from the lit ends of their cigarettes into the winter air. I smiled politely at the driver as he quickly stepped on his cigarette and opened the door of a black Quality SUV with a “Dunn” placard in the front window, and held his palm out to help me climb in. I searched his face for judgment, for recognition that I wasn’t supposed to be climbing into the back of his car with Peter, that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring while Peter was. But his eyes were a blank, professional kind of polite. They seemed to barely register me at all. I crossed my legs to make myself feel more in control, continuing the charade of propriety. If I did this, I was no better than the rumors. Fuck the rumors. Fuck the people who spread them. They don’t matter. Peter slipped smoothly into the seat next to me and put a hand on my leg as the driver closed the door with a soft thud, sealing us inside the car. Peter’s hand, just above my knee, shattered the thin facade to which I had been clinging. I squirmed slightly, and there was a fleeting moment when I considered pulling back—pretending that he had somehow misread the situation and that I’d thought we were going to discuss the letter of intent on the Stag River deal.
But he took the back of my head in his palm and pulled my lips to his, and electricity shot through me.
His breath was smoky with scotch and slightly sweet, like a burned orange. Something on his skin smelled spicy as I breathed him in. He smelled so different from, so much better than, Sam.
I melted into him as my other senses sprang to life. His lips were soft and inviting. I half expected somebody of his age to kiss differently. But he didn’t. I put my hand on his chest and moaned slightly in protest as I pushed him ever so slightly away, sensing that I was supposed to do so to make certain he knew I was struggling with my conscience. He played his part deftly, pushing the back of my head a bit harder, then pulling away from me and looking curiously into my eyes. He said nothing, but he cupped my face in his hand and drew me to him again. He placed his lips on my forehead, and all of my anxieties evaporated as the tip of my nose explored the cavity of his neck. He backed away again and smiled wistfully, making me blush. And then this time, I kissed him. His tongue explored mine with such gentleness that I gave up all control, sucking hungrily at the power I felt charging through his body into mine.