Every day I look forward to seeing Abbott. Every day I race home, earlier and earlier and earlier—Taylor has called me pussy-whipped twice this week—to beat Abbott home, excited by the prospect of spending the evening with her.
If that isn’t a relationship, I don’t know what is…
My friends don’t know she exists. Only Taylor knows, and he isn’t telling anyone, with the hopes that I’ll change my mind about her. If Taylor had his way, I’d put a ring on it so he could come live with us in the Margolis family penthouse, vacation on the Margolis family yacht, and sip from Margolis family champagne flutes, living his best life as my assistant—one who does nothing but bask in bougieness.
Bastard.
Blaine and Phillip? Do not know I spend far more than three consecutive nights hanging out with her. Don’t know she feeds me, I feed her, and we spend most of our free time together. They’re unaware she is my friend. And I find her incredibly sexy. And she’s smart and witty and talented. No one knows I went down on her and want to fuck her, over and over again until neither of us can walk a straight line…
…to the fridge, to get more food, so we can have more energy, to have all the sex.
It’s a vicious cycle, one that has only played out in my head.
It’s a rough life, but I’m managing.
Abbott presents me with her back, inserting her gold key into the gold lock on her door. Turns it until the lock clicks. Shoots a glance at me over her shoulder, hair swaying.
“You better not be flirting,” I warn.
“Me? Flirting?” She gives her front door a push. “Please.”
“Yeah, you.”
“Blah blah, I’ll see you in ten minutes.” As she crosses the threshold, tossing her keys onto the table next to the door, she remembers something. “Oh! You take this since I’m coming over.” Abbott presses the bag of food into my waiting hands. Points a finger up at me. “Don’t you dare start without me.”
I’d hold my hands up in surrender, but they’re full of Chinese takeout. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I am such a damn liar.
20
Abbott
Brooks Bennett went down on me yesterday.
Brooks. Gave. Me. Oral.
And here I am, on a Friday night, standing in front of my closet, staring up at my wardrobe, deciding what to wear so we can casually hang out in his apartment.
A first.
I thought running into him “after the deed” was going to be monumentally awkward. Kind of considered it something he would regret, thought maybe he’d ghost me, which seems like a thing he would do.
He surprised me by being mischievous, practically falling out of the elevator, breathing heavy for Lord knows what reason and wanting to see me again.
Granted, the man likes to eat and I was standing in the hall, holding a bag of takeout.
The encounter wasn’t awkward at all.
Thank.
God.
I mean, if it had been weird, would I be going to his apartment for dinner? The dinner I went and bought with him in mind, wishing I’d bump into him…loitering too long in the apartment lobby…then lingering by the elevators, then dawdling at my door, rummaging for my keys.
Lucky me, ’cause it worked.
Brooks Bennett went down on me yesterday.
I’ve mentally repeated that sentence hundreds of times throughout the day, letting the words sink in, distracting me from work, from deadlines, from new assignments and hard-to-manage co-workers.
Brooks Bennett might have gone down on me two days ago, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to want a relationship with me today.
He doesn’t want a relationship? Ever?
Like, ever, ever?
I absorb the information, letting that sink in, too, as I pull off my work clothes. First the fitted tweed pencil skirt, then the matching blazer. White button-up blouse. White silk bra. White silk panties.
These are not Chinese-food-eating, couch-surfing undergarments.
I replace them with cotton, fastening a basic bra I bought at Costco, determined not to get fussy. It’s not as if he’s going to see me naked later, although a girl can dream.
My hands go to my hips as I stand in my underwear, still deciding which casual but cute I woke up like this outfit I want to put on. Forsake the sweatshirts that say YAWN and NOT TODAY SATAN and NAMASTE IN BED and instead pull down a white crewneck from a neatly stacked pile of shirts atop a low shelf Nan hired someone to build for me.
Bottoms, bottoms, what do I want to wear on the bottom…
I tap my chin, blue eyes roaming over piles of black cotton yoga pants. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: I’ve never done yoga in any of these pants a single day in my sorry life. These pants have never known sweat. These pants have never known tears.
Black bottoms or something with a pattern?
Hey—he might not want to date me, but I know this much: I turn him on. He was rock-hard while he was going down on me, as evidenced by the giant boner when he finally stood up and headed to my bathroom to wash up.
Jeez, do people still use the word boner when they’re describing an erection?
Sighing, I reach for a pair of white and gray bottoms so he can stare at my ass good and hard. Struggle to pull the damn things on, eventually squeezing into them, then my sweatshirt.
“This is as good as it’s going to get, isn’t it, homegirl?” I tell my reflection in the mirror before tossing my hair.
Desdemona is nowhere to be found, most likely hiding beneath my bed, her favorite spot when she’s in one of her famous moods.
My cat is certifiable.
I quickly check her food and water, just to be on the safe side, then hit the lights in the apartment. Pad my way to the door, lock up, and shuffle across the hall.
Knock.
Wait, tapping my foot impatiently. For real. He knew I was coming—what’s taking him so long to answer the door?
Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and I rub small circles above my belly button, three long minutes passing before Brooks flings the door open without ceremony, cracking it just enough that I can slide my way inside.
“Did you just sniff me?” I blurt out, knowing damn well that he did. I’ve caught him doing it several times already when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
Joke’s on him because I always notice.
“Nope.”
Liar. Deny it all you want—I definitely heard your nose sniffing the air.
I navigate to the living room, bloodhounding my way to the food laid out on the stone coffee table. Brooks has it spread out like a mini buffet, having transferred the contents from takeout containers to glass bowls.
Ooh la la. Fancy.
While I’m settling in on the couch, finding my comfy spot, he disappears, returning with ice water, two wine glasses, and a bottle of white.
“Nothing goes better with cheap Chinese food than expensive white wine,” I tease, pulling the cork out of the top and pouring us each a glass.
I sip.
It’s cool and crisp and absolutely perfect. Goes down way too smooth, the first few dainty sips going straight to my head.
I set it on the table and recline.
I love this time with him after a long day at work, after the arguments and the negotiations and wasting my time and energy on creative flow. Arguing with creative people—like Bambi Warner—who might have incredible talent and ideas but don’t quite fit what the client wants.