Lauren Blakely - Night After Night

Clay shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fuck off to you too. I’ll catch you later.”

After hanging up, he pushed open the door, brushed off the drops of water on his suit jacket, and weaved his way to Michele, who was perched on a stool at the bar. She waved when she saw him, and as he reached her she wrapped him in a hug, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t have an umbrella,” she said, wagging her finger.

He loosened his dark green tie, unknotting the damn thing. “I’m a man. Men don’t carry umbrellas.”

“I’m a woman. I carry a big umbrella,” she said, tipping her forehead to the umbrella holder by the door. “Mine’s the polka dot one about four feet high.”

“Is that supposed to be a substitute for something, Michele?”

“Oh yes. You’ve figured me out. I have penis envy so I carry a large stick.” She patted the wooden stool next to her. “Sit. Have a drink.”

“I need one,” he said, taking off his suit jacket and tossing it on the back of the stool. “Whiskey. Straight up,” he told the bartender.

When the glass of amber liquid arrived, he downed it in one quick swallow then ordered another. That glass earned the same treatment. Michele arched an eyebrow. “Shit day?”

“Shit week,” he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair. He was sure his hair was standing up, unkempt. He’d been pushing his hands through it all week, as if that motion would someone ease the coiled frustration that had taken up residence in his bones and bloodstream, courtesy of one Julia Bell. It made no sense to him. He’d studied it from all angles, turned it inside and out and around. He didn’t understand how they could have the time together they did – a weekend that was unforgettable – and then descend into radio silence.

“Talk to me,” Michele said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. He looked down at her hand. Everything about her was familiar and safe. He’d known her for years, and though he’d never put his hands on her again after that one drunk kiss in college, there was something comforting about her. Maybe because they were long-time friends, maybe because she was a shrink. She helped people for a living. Maybe she could help him make sense of that woman’s exodus.

“Fine,” he said, because the alcohol had already loosened him up. He wanted to jettison this tangle of anger and hurt from his chest.“You ready for this?”

“The doctor is in session,” she said, sitting up straight and proper. “Only for an after hours session, I insist on another one of these,” she said, tapping his glass.

She ordered another round as he began talking.

“I met someone,” he started then told her the story. Not every detail. He wasn’t about to confess that he’d had a raging hard-on for the last week and refused to do anything about it because he knew he’d think of Julia, and he wanted to stop thinking of his fiery redhead. He didn’t tell her either that making love to that woman had been the most intense sexual encounter of his life. She was his perfect pair in every way – in the bedroom, and outside the bedroom. He’d never enjoyed a woman’s company as much as hers, and he’d felt like they could do anything together. “We had a great time. A perfect weekend. And we were falling for each other. I was sure of it. Talked about seeing each other again, making a go of it,” he said and Michele’s features tightened; her lips pursed as he told her about the plans they made for a long-distance affair. “Everything seemed like it was clicking on all cylinders. Every single thing.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Every thing?” Her voice sounded strained as if the question were hard for her.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep the desire out of his voice. His throat was parched just thinking of Julia. “We had a connection.”

“Oh. I thought you meant,” Michele said, then let her voice trail off as she blushed.

He had meant that , but he didn’t intend to share details of his sex life with Davis’ sister. What a man did behind closed doors, or in a town car, or in a bar in the West Village – he shifted uncomfortably, recalling Julia’s stoic orgasm at The Red Line as he worked her over under the bar – was between the man and the woman. Only the woman he wanted had run; she didn’t want his business. “But the next morning, she was out of here like a bat out of hell. So tell me, Michele. Tell me, my wise little shrink. What am I missing? Is she secretly craving me and can’t figure out how to tell me?” he asked, laying it on the line as he ached for an explanation. “Cause I fucking miss her, and I want her in my life. Did I miss a cue from her? Fuck something up? Is there something I should be doing”

Michele didn’t answer right away. She reached for her glass and took a long drink. After she set it down, she looked straight at him, her dark brown eyes both intense and caring. “I’m going to be blunt. I’m going to be direct, and talk to you like I would talk to one of my patients. And here’s the thing, Clay,” she said, reaching out to place her hand on his thigh. “That’s not how a woman behaves when she likes a man.”

His shoulders sank and he sighed heavily. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “She’s history. I hate to say it, because clearly you have it bad for her, but she ran. Maybe there’s something in her life that’s tying her down. Maybe she has some deep dark past. Maybe she’s secretly married and really only could manage one weekend with you. But if she truly had a great time with you and truly was open to dating long distance like she claimed, then she’d have called you when her flight landed. She’d have texted you. She’d be, I don’t know,” Michele said, forcing out a laugh, “Sending you naughty pictures.”

Clay winced, and his dick rose to attention at the thought of a naughty picture of Julia appearing on his home screen. Maybe a shot of her topless, of those full luscious breasts that he longed to lick and kiss and squeeze. Or that ass, so round and sexy, and calling out for a spanking. In his mind, he could hear the sound of his palm smacking her ass, the sharp slap, and the surprised oh that would fall from her lips. Followed by a moan. She liked spankings. He was pissed that he hadn’t had the chance to smack her ass more than once.

He wanted to slam his fist against the bar. “So the lack of naughty shots on my phone is the surest sign that this woman is history,” he said through tight lips, barely wanting to acknowledge the cold hard truth Michele was laying out for him.

She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Yes, Clay. She’s history. When a woman wants to be with a man, she makes the effort to see him, to call him, to spend time with him. Just as he does with her. She aspires to be honest and upfront. To share her heart. Besides, that’s what you deserve,” she said, and squeezed his arm.

For a second there, it felt as if she lingered on his bicep. But maybe it was the booze making his mind fuzzy. Which reminded him – he needed another drink.

By the time he left, he was pretty damn sure he was buzzed. Walking to the subway stop two blocks away, he changed that assessment as the cabs and cars and lights around him grew fuzzier. He wasn’t buzzed. He was drunk. So drunk, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t text her as he headed down the steps to the platform, reaching for his phone from his pocket, missing it the first time. He nearly stumbled onto the subway car, as his fingers flew across the screen.

I can’t stop thinking about you .

He hit send, then cursed himself, wished he could take it back. He was going to get nothing in return from Julia and that would only make her exit burn more.

When he emerged on Christopher Street, he hoped that maybe the gods of drunk texting were looking out for him. That perhaps there’d been no signal underground, and he’d be saved from his own stupid desires for her.