Coming Together Read online

  He seemed perfect and understanding and made me coffee.

  Then, one fine spring evening, he took me out to our second favorite sushi joint and informed me that he and his ex-wife wanted to have another kid. They wanted another kid so much that they banged, and now she was pregnant, and he was planning to take some time off of our casual relationship to help her through the pregnancy. Then, after a few months of living at home with his still very much ex and welcoming the newborn, he’d be ready for us to continue our casual, casual fun.

  Here are two facts about me: One, I carry a foghorn in my purse. It’s sort of a holdover from my circus days; I just feel better when I have something that honks near at hand. After Darren laid this whole beautiful story at my feet, I rummaged in my purse, took out said foghorn, and held it an inch from his ear.

  He did eventually recover most of his hearing.

  And two, I have terrible taste in men. If I’m intrigued by you, or if you start getting my panties damp and my nipples perking to attention, it’s probably because you have the creep pheromone. I’m attracted to it like Archie is to the smell of another dog’s balls. In fact, it’s probably a related phenomenon.

  Now I’ve gone and shtupped a man who can derail my career with one easy word to the principal.

  What the hell have I done to myself this time?

  “I’m just glad you’re giving this one more shot,” Emery says as we stroll into the Urth Café later that night, balls and needles in hand. That is yarn balls and knitting needles, of course. We’re the most boring twenty-somethings in Los Angeles.

  Our social knitting group is in their spot right by the window, looking out onto the street. The place smells like expensive coffee beans and green tea. The gang’s all here, all looking very preppy and scrubbed. When Emery told me about a knitting group, I was excited. Finally, people to make elephant tea cozies with and discuss which Robert Jordan book is our favorite. Answer is every one of them until he died, and Brandon Sanderson took over. Natch.

  But instead of finding a nerdy camaraderie, I ended up with a bunch of yoga moms and preps. I always feel like I’m out of step because I don’t give a damn how hard aquatic yoga is on your arms or cellulite, and I don’t have an opinion on whether Taylor Swift was better before or after she left country music.

  The ladies—two named Shelley, three named Alison—all look up as we sit down. Emery told me once, under her breath, that they begged her to stay to allow them some diversity cred and make them feel super tolerant. The only reason she keeps coming is to throw glorious shade.

  “Hey Shelley,” she says to one of the Alisons as she sits down, taking out her needles.

  “Oh, that’s so funny! I’m Alison,” Alison 3.0, or maybe 2.0, says. She turns to the others like she just heard a hilarious joke. “Isn’t that funny? I love how that’s so funny, that you can’t tell us apart.”

  “I really can’t,” Emery says flatly, beginning the left arm of her sweater. It’s going to show the Virgin of Guadalupe eating a cantaloupe. None of the Alisons or Shelleys get it, but they tell each other it’s so funny over and over again.

  My phone buzzes as I sit, and I take it out. Second text from Will of the day, which should make me feel like dancing on the tables, but currently makes me want to curl up under one and rock back and forth.

  Good day?

  I could try reading many nefarious intentions into that text. It’s almost as evil as his first, when he texted: Hope you got to school safe ;)

  He gave me an emoticon wink. Clearly the man is an axe murderer.

  Every time I’ve gotten one of these, I’ve wanted to text back. Maybe something flirty, like, Safe is one word for it (glad we used a condom if you missed the meaning) or WHY DO YOU WANT TO HURT ME or Thanks ;)

  Pick one.

  What am I supposed to do? Tell him I want it casual? That I like things casual? That the only man I ever thought I loved viewed me as totally casual, so casual is how I have to think of myself? I’m like leisure wear. I’m like a casual traveling suit that a man might wear on a business trip in the 40s, with a slight checkered design. You know, a suit that’s been around to a few places, maybe the Orient Express…

  “Oh dear, you’ve completely missed your stitch,” one of the Shelleys says, clucking her tongue at me. I look at the whole congregation of them, two sleek brunettes and three blondes with their roots touched. They’re wearing yoga pants and cardigans, same as me. They’re the same age as me, or thereabouts. But none of them just screwed a divorced poon hound. None of them just blasted their chances of getting tenure at a school. None of them have to move back to an Airstream with two clowns and a murderous anaconda that I’m pretty sure is just biding its time before it gets us all.

  None of them have fucked up problems.

  I could open up to them, tell them all my fears and doubts. Maybe I could lean in on that glorious sisterhood we’re supposed to be creating together.

  But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is, “Look, I like casual sex!”

  One of the Alisons is actually wearing a set of pearls she can clutch. Emery gives me what can best be described as a pitying look. The other women give me scrunched up faces that indicate silent disapproval. One puts on an extra layer of pomegranate lip gloss, just to give her something to do that isn’t awkward.

  “Well. How nice for you, hon,” Shelley the First says.

  Fuck this. I stow my needles and yarn, my cheeks burning as I hike my bag over my shoulder and duck out of the café with muttered excuses.

  “Hold up! I’m your ride, remember?” Emery calls as I wave back at her, shouting apologies and dialing an Uber. I can’t even sit with Emery right now. I can’t feel how big a failure I am in front of one of the more sensible people in my life. I need something to take my mind off how badly I boned today. How goodly, or well-ly, or whatever I boned Will Munroe.

  I need the sweet embrace of pie.

  12

  Will

  Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. My arms are burning as I get close to my final dead lift, but the pain’s good. Pain’s focusing, as my father used to tell me. Well Dad, if you taught my brothers and me anything it’s to A) wear protection when sleeping with someone else’s wife, and B) life is pain.

  I never had any use for the former, but the latter’s come in fucking handy over the years.

  I finally let go of the bar, wincing and hissing as my arms remind me how much they want to kick my ass right about now. Well guys, you can’t kick anything. That’s what legs are for, and this isn’t leg day.

  As I walk the length of the gym, past women who are ten pounds underweight and running to keep it that way, I think about Chelle. I think about how she hasn’t returned either of my texts. I think about how I’m thinking about that too goddamn much.

  One golden rule to follow if you’re a man: don’t text more than twice a day, especially if she hasn’t responded. Three’s the magic number that makes you look desperate at best and a stalker at worst.

  Speaking of stalker, I see one of the shitheads from my job heading toward me, a towel draped over his shoulders and a water bottle in his hand. He’s got the whole serious workout look going for him. It’s too much like a costume, and I think this kid knows it. He’s one of the twenty-somethings I call Bert’s “walk and laugh” pack. You know the type: five or six younger guys in suits, trailing the boss like a line of Armani ducklings, laughing at whatever the older, richer duck says. This kid’s name is…shit, Kevin or something, I forget. There’re three Kevins in the gaggle alone.

  “Munroe. Looks like you’ve been going hard on yourself,” the kid says, like he just did something other than state the goddamn obvious. He holds out his hand for one of those bro clasps that doesn’t come. He knows I’m not playing his game, and hides his annoyance. Hides it badly, too.

  “Helps to keep yourself sharp,” I tell Some Kevin before moving past him.

  “Congrats on the Tokyo trip,” the kid says as I breeze
past. I hear him mutter something a lot less pleasant under his breath and smile. Good. That kind of resentment’ll give him hunger. It’ll do him good down the line.

  And yeah, the Tokyo trip is the Big One. The two week one, the one that the company needs its best and brightest for. Normally this’d be a win for me, but there’s still the problem of Amelia, and Suzonne, and Chelle. This is coming right when Suzonne’s warming up to the idea of letting me have Amelia jointly. It’s coming right when Amelia’s play is about to go up. And it’s coming right when Chelle… Well, I’m a gentleman, so I’m not going for the obvious come joke. I’ll just imply it like an asshole.

  Why hasn’t she returned my texts?

  Fuck it. After I shower and change, I’m back in the car and headed down Pico toward the Apple Pan restaurant. Chelle’s a pastry kind of girl, and Apple Pan has some of the best apple pie in the city. Next time I get her over to the condo—and there will be a next time—it’ll be nice to have something on hand.

  I park my car and walk inside the restaurant. Apple Pan’s set up in a strange way; the kitchen’s right in the middle of the room, with a bar lining the whole square of it and stools surrounding said bar. You perch by the wall, waiting for someone to finish eating and stand up so you can grab the seat. I wait until one man stands up, belches, and moves. Then I dive in and grab the seat, proving I’ve still got it.

  There’s a woman next to me who seems to be having a real shitty day from the way she’s shoveling pie into her mouth. Her red hair hangs in her face, and her cheek’s in her hand as she bites into what looks like her second slice. I feel kind of sorry for the woman, especially when I realize she’s pretty goddamn cute, and her hair is a familiar shade of red, and yes—fucking yes—it’s Chelle.

  “How’s it going?” I watch her respond to me with what can best be called a sizeable jump out of her seat.

  “I’m awesome. I’m not eating pie. I mean, I am.” She sighs, shoving her plate away. “I’m eating all the pie.”

  “This’ll sound crazy, but I was picking up one for myself.” I wave the guy over, give my order, and watch Chelle lean her head down into her arms. “I’m guessing this isn’t celebratory pie eating.”

  “My dog peed on the floor, I went to school in clothes I had sex in, all the most basic women in the world see that I’m a failure, and the worst part is they’re right. Bay of Dreams isn’t going to hire me back after I had sex with a parent, and I’m going straight back to the circus.” She lifts her head, her eyes shimmering with tears. “By the way, whenever I hear people talking about childhood dreams of running off to join the circus, my kidneys get a new stone.”

  The pie arrives in a neat pink box. I pay for it, then slide it over to her. Chelle regards it like it’s a bomb dressed up in pastry’s clothing.

  “I don’t think you’ve had enough.” Damn, though, this woman looks worn through. Fuck, that’s probably why she didn’t return my texts. She’s scared for her job, which I didn’t even consider. “So you know, I’m not the kind of guy who calls to inform the school board every time I get a great blow job from one of their teachers.”

  Chelle snorts. “So only the subpar ones get reported?”

  “There needs to be some accountability in education.” That makes her smile a little. Picking up the pie box, I slide my arm around her waist and ease her off the stool. “We’re going to have a talk.”

  When we get in my car, I hand over the box and a plastic fork. “Eat. Or talk. Try not to do both at the same time.”

  “New upholstering?” she asks as she takes a forkful of pie. I never thought watching a woman eat her way through an entire apple pie could be so fucking arousing, but I’m learning a lot about myself these days.

  “Business time.” I drum my fingers on the wheel; fuck, am I nervous about how this is going to go? “Are you upset over last night?”

  The way she snaps her head up and the shocked look in her eyes instantly sets me at ease.

  “Last night was amazing. In a casual way,” she adds quickly, stabbing at the crust. “That’s what I’m all about. Casual.”

  That should be my cue to punch the roof of the car in celebration, sigh in relief and maybe do a victory lap around the parking lot. To the divorced professional, casual sex is what keeps the engine running. However, I’ve been right on the edge of combustion for a while now, metaphorically speaking, and I kind of like it that way. Then again, this woman’s not sure if she’s going to have a job in a few months. Getting serious right now would probably be a bad thing, at least in her eyes.

  “Casual, then. You’ve got nothing to worry about from me. The school’s not going to fire you just because you’re amazing in bed.”

  “Amazing, eh?” She grins, visibly relaxing. “I try to encourage grander vocabulary in my classes. Superlative’s a good one.”

  “A superlatively frustrating woman? Is that good enough?” I ask, grinning. She flutters her eyelashes dramatically.

  “You have besmirched my maidenly honor, methinks,” she drawls. A lock of hair falls into her eyes, and I brush it aside. I trail my fingers along her cheek, tracing the line of her full, sensual bottom lip. Fuck, I can’t be getting hard behind the wheel of my car. The steering column’s a bitch on an erection.

  “Always happy to besmirch again,” I say. Chelle watches me, then takes the pie box and settles it in the back seat. She draws nearer to me, nearly crawling across the gear selector.

  “What about now?” she asks, her eyes searching mine, her lips waiting. She also tries to dust some crumbs off the front of her shirt, clearly hoping I won’t notice. This woman is mouthy one minute, vulnerable the next, and clearly doesn’t take herself too seriously. Up to this point in my life, cool, unknowable blondes were my style. I’ve had enough of those for a goddamn lifetime, I realize. This is something real, and incidentally, something hot. I can’t pretend that’s not a factor.

  I close the distance, kissing her hard as she moans deep in her throat. Fuck, that sound is electricity through me. Chelle moves against me, now almost straddling me in the driver’s seat. My mind’s blitzed by the feel of her rubbing against my erection, the sensation of her breasts as they fit perfectly into my hands. She gasps a little as I squeeze her nipple through the thin material of her shirt. Fuck, I could come just listening to her.

  There’s enough of my functional brain left, though, to realize that we need to be less visible. So as much as it’s fucking impossible to tear myself away from her tits, to stop kissing the line of her throat, I get myself under control.

  “There’s more room in the backseat,” I growl.

  “There’s a pie back there.”

  “Fuck it. It can watch.”

  With a swift and clean jump, Chelle’s in the backseat. I didn’t think about how roomy the back was when I bought the car, but now I want to go back to Studio City and shake that man at the dealership’s hand for excellent planning. Chelle’s on her back, gasping with need as I slide down her yoga pants. Christ, I’m hard, but I don’t have a condom on me. I should go everywhere with those bastards, but even if I had one I wouldn’t want to use it right now.

  She’s had a rough day. Someone ought to make her feel better. Just lucky that someone should be me.

  When I slide my hand down the front of her panties, Chelle begins to keen. She looks up at me, her eyes half-lidded with desire.

  “That’s all right, baby. I want to watch you come,” I murmur, leaning forward to kiss her neck, her chest. Hiking her shirt up to reveal her lacy bra—I missed the sight of that thing—I suck her nipple through the material. Chelle groans, biting her fist to make as little sound as possible. Who knows if anyone’s outside.

  Let ’em listen and be jealous is my motto.

  She’s already wet as I run my finger up and down the lips of her pussy. I sink one finger into her slowly, feeling her clamp down. As I start moving my finger in and out, rhythmically, I press my palm to her clit, applying more and more pressure. Chel
le gives up on fist biting, instead arching her back and gasping my name while I kiss and nip my way down her stomach.

  I’m going to make this woman come screaming my name. The thought is nearly as good as being inside of her.

  When I feel that she’s stiffening beneath my hand, about to tip over the edge and shatter with her orgasm, I stop. I want her to beg me for it, and claim her mouth again. Her tongue lightly strokes against mine, and I grunt, bite gently down on her bottom lip. Chelle bucks her hips insistently, trying to get me to take her the last little bit over the edge. I’m resolute. Not yet.

  “Fuck me with your mouth,” she whispers, kissing along the line of my jaw. That’s a beautiful idea.

  Slowly, I help her sit up, so that I end up situated right between her legs. The windows in here are tinted, if starting to steam a little. Christ, it’s like every horny teenage boy’s dream, going down on a girl in the back of a luxury car. If high school me could see this, he’d be happy with where his future’s headed.

  Chelle takes off her shirt, but not her bra. Don’t want to get too indecent in public, I suppose. Slowly, I run my tongue down between her breasts before circling back over her nipple, sucking and biting once more. Chelle runs her fingers through my hair as I cycle from one breast to the next, getting lost in them. How can any woman have such perfect tits? While I kiss, bite, and suck, I slide her panties down so that she’s almost completely naked. Then I pepper kisses down her stomach, glancing up to find her looking down at me with her lips parted, raw need shining in her eyes. Yes. That’s what I want to see: her desperate for me, wanting me to take her over the edge.

  I go down, down, until I’m at the perfect spot, until Chelle’s breathless and flushed and waiting.

  Then I begin.

  13

  Chelle

  This man is going to be the orgasmic death of me, and I don’t want it any other way. Will’s kissed his way down my body, his hands trailing up and down the length of my inner thighs. My pussy’s aching, my clit throbbing with need, but he hasn’t started yet. He’s staring up at me, almost daring me to beg him to continue.