My father had gotten my mother pregnant and then refused to do the right thing and marry her. He’d abandoned us both. He’d sent us money—so we were financially taken care of. But what I’d really wanted was a father. Eventually all the broken promises built up into a mountain I couldn’t see over. The birthday parties where I watched the door, hoping he’d show up, took their toll. There were one too many Christmases where the only thing I asked Santa for was my dad. It was his absence from my life that had been the real problem because it felt as if there was always someone else that came first, somewhere else he’d rather be. It left me with the feeling that I wasn’t worth anyone’s time.
“You want to talk about it?” Grace asked.
I smiled. “Absolutely not. I wanna get a little drunk in my new apartment with my best friend. Maybe gossip and eat some ice cream.”
“That is our speciality,” Grace replied. “Can we talk about boys?”
“We can talk about boys but I’m warning you, if you try to set me up I’m kicking your ass back to Brooklyn.”
“But you haven’t even heard who it’s with yet.”
I laughed. She was so easy to read. “I’m not interested in dating. I’m focusing on my career. That way I can’t be disappointed.” Max King’s words, results, not effort, get rewarded, rang in my ears. I would just have to do better, work harder. There wasn’t any time for dating or setups.
“You’re so cynical. Not every man is like your father.”
“I didn’t say they were. Don’t play amateur shrink on me. I just want to get established here in New York. Dating isn’t my priority. That’s all.” I took a sip of my wine and tucked my legs under me.
I would win Max King around if it killed me. I’d followed his career so carefully it’d felt as if I knew him. But I’d imagined myself as his protégée. I’d start working for him and he’d tell me he’d never met anyone so talented. I’d assumed within a few days we’d be able to finish each other’s sentences and we’d high five each other after meetings. And I admit it, I may have had a sex dream about him. Or two.
That had all been before I’d met him. I’d been an idiot.
“Sex,” I blurted. “That’s what men are good for. Maybe I’ll take a lover.”
“That’s all?” Grace asked.
I traced the rim of my glass with my finger. “What else do we need them for?”
“Friendship?”
“I have you,” I replied.
“Emotional support?”
“Again, that’s your job. You share it with ice cream, wine, and the occasional retail overspend.”
“And it’s a job the four of us take very seriously. But what about when you want babies?” Grace asked.
Kids were the last thing on my mind. My mother had changed careers from working in finance to becoming a teacher so she could spend more time with me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to make such a sacrifice. “If and when I ever get around to thinking about that stuff, I’ll go to a sperm bank. Worked for my mother.”
“Your mom didn’t go to a sperm bank.”
I took a gulp from my glass. “Might as well have.” I didn’t have a father as far as I was concerned.
“Hand me your iPad. I want to see this hot boss of yours again.”
I groaned. “Don’t.” I reached for the tablet on the table beside the couch and handed it over despite myself.
“Max King, right?”
I didn’t respond.
“He really is ridiculously good looking.” Grace swiped and flicked at the screen. I deliberately didn’t look. He didn’t deserve my attention.
“Put it away. It’s enough that I have to deal with him Monday through Friday. Let me enjoy my weekend without having to look at his arrogant face.” I glanced at the Forbes cover image Grace had brought up. Crossed arms, stern expression, full pouty lips.
Asshole.
A crash above me caught my attention and I looked up at my ceiling. The pretty glass light swayed from side to side. “Was that a bomb that just went off?” I asked.
“Sounds like your upstairs neighbor just dropped an anvil on the roadrunner.”
I placed my finger over my lips and listened intently. Grace’s eyes grew wide as what had started as incoherent mumbling morphed into the unmistakable sound of a woman having sex.
Panting. Moaning. Begging.
Then another crash. What the fuck was going on up there? Were there more than two people involved?
Skin slapped against skin followed by the sound of a woman crying out. Heat crept up my neck and spread across my cheeks. Someone was having much more fun on a Saturday afternoon than we were.
An unmistakably male voice shouted “fuck” and the woman’s cries tumbled out fast and desperate. The knock of a headboard against drywall thudded louder and louder. The woman’s breathless moaning almost sounded panicked. My chandelier started to sway more furiously, and I swear the vibrations from whatever furniture was knocking against whatever wall travelled down from the ceiling and straight to my groin. I squeezed my thighs together just as the man yelled out to God and she gave a final, sharp scream that echoed through my box-filled apartment.
In the silence that followed, my heart thudded through my sweater. I was half exhilarated by what I’d heard; half embarrassed I’d consciously eavesdropped on something so personal.
Someone less than three yards away from me had just come for America.
“That might be a guy I have to get to know,” Grace said when it was clear the sexcapades had stopped. “He certainly sounded like he knew what he was doing.”
“They seemed very . . . compatible.” Had I ever sounded that desperate during sex, that hungry for my orgasm? I knew the sounds of a woman who exaggerated in the bedroom. The woman upstairs hadn’t been faking. Like jumping at the scary bits of a horror movie, the sounds from her had been involuntary.
“They sound like they have excellent sex. Maybe you should knock on their door and suggest a threesome.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, along with a cup of sugar.”
Footsteps clipped along the ceiling. “She kept her heels on,” Grace said. “Nice.”
The tapping wandered across my ceiling toward my blanket box. The upstairs front door creaked, then slammed. The sound of footsteps disappeared.
“Well, she got what she wanted and split. You’re not going to need a TV in this place. You can just tune into the soap opera that is your neighbor.”
“You think she was a prostitute?” I asked. A woman leaving less than five minutes after an orgasm like that wasn’t normal. Surely she’d stick around for oxygen or round two? Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d have made it to a vertical position, let alone in heels, within an hour of what she’d experienced.
“A prostitute? She’s a lucky one if she is.” Grace giggled. “But I don’t think so. A guy who can make a woman sound like that doesn’t need to pay for it.” She leaned forward and placed her empty glass on one of the dozens of boxes littered about the apartment. “Right, I’m going to get home to my vibrator.”
“That’s really way too much information.”