Coming Together Page 18

  I text my daughter first, but get nothing. Based on different time zones, she’s probably just about to get up for school. I text Chelle next, but nothing, probably for the same reason. Though maybe she’s running up the canyon trail right now, grinning as she powers ahead. I can see her, headphones in, yoga pants hugging her flawless ass. And the dog—the dog keeps getting in the way of my imagination.

  Shoo, Archie. Go grab a drink with Bruno or something.

  With the two women in my life probably still asleep, I feel the most wide awake in a long time. It’s a lonely feeling and I hate it. But the meetings and the conferences and all the other bullshit that’s going to eat up my time here don’t get going until tomorrow. Right now it’s only me, in this giant hotel room with no one else. No Amelia to order too much ice cream from room service. No Chelle to take to bed.

  This’ll be the longest two weeks of my damn life.

  17

  Chelle

  Having your parents over to see your apartment is awkward at the best of times. Having them over when your socially-conscious new production of Oliver is about to open, and your probably-boyfriend is in another country, and they brought a monkey with them…well, that’s something else altogether.

  Chuckles the monkey is cute, though. He’s a Nordic pygmy? Or a Rhodesian rawhide? At any rate, he is about the size of my palm and loves to cuddle while eating peanuts, so he’s good in my book. Though Archie had a rougher time.

  Really, Archie will let any animal on this green earth pin him down and hump his brains out. I think he enjoys it. Hell, I still don’t understand how that was physically possible.

  “Know what I love about this place?” Dad says as he comes the whole two steps out of my bedroom and into the living room. “It has so much space!” He says this while looking very hard for one smooth piece of floor to step on.

  Look, I have a lot of scarves.

  I don’t remember why I have them, why I bought them, or what I planned to do with them. Same way I don’t recall when I bought that five-foot stuffed giraffe in the corner. But it makes a good hat-rack. And as I have seven hats…

  Maybe I should make a trip to Goodwill soon.

  “Well, when you live in an Airstream out in the Dakota badlands, any place with a roof and no wheels has that effect,” I say, giving Chuckles another peanut to munch while he perches on top of my head.

  Aw. God, I hope he doesn’t poop again.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Mom says as she comes out of my bathroom. The toilet’s flushing, and my blood chills as I realize she hasn’t taken off her Harlequin makeup. My dad plays Bozo the Clown roles, with white face and big red lips and a multicolored suit and the type of look that creates life long night terrors for children. Mom, on the other hand, goes for a more classic black and white look, the kind of clown with the pure white face and the single black tear tracking down her cheek. Which she is wearing right now. For some reason.

  “Mom. Is there a reason we needed to bring Columbina out for dinner?” I ask, trying to be casual. Columbina is Mom’s character that she plays, usually for richer kids’ birthday parties. Good thing they’re rich, because they will need to pay those psychotherapy bills somehow.

  “I figured it would attract attention! Then maybe some parents stop to talk to us, and their kids like us, and boom!” She throws up her hands, very proud of herself. “Your father and I are booked for another party.”

  “Boy, that’s a great idea!” Dad’s face lights up as he hightails it for the john. “Debbie, we packed my red wig, didn’t we?”

  I don’t throw myself into Dad’s way so much as I fall into the hallway in front of him. Like I said, this apartment ain’t big enough for the three of us and our combined crazy.

  “Guys, can we just go out for some halibut without any weird looks? Please?” My parents stop. Mom looks sad—I mean, even though she’s got crying painted on to her face, she looks even sadder.

  “I thought you liked it when Bonko and Columbina went out to dinner,” Dad says, shoving his hands into his pockets in a look that screams sad clown dad. I really had loved Bonko and Columbina—God, those names—when we’d go out to dinner. But I had been five, and we were at a CiCi’s Pizza in Salem, Oregon, and it was just a different vibe. We got a free ice cream sundae after Dad made balloon animals for the chef. That won’t happen in downtown Los Angeles.

  “Please, Mom? We can hand out business cards instead.”

  She sighs, but at least starts heading for the bathroom again. “Your problem, Chelle, is that you care too much about what people think,” she tsks. She does kiss my cheek, though, which is probably now covered in makeup.

  I mean, she’s not wrong. When I’d go to people’s houses for dinner during college, I’d see the same middle class homes with the same lawns and the same gates and the same family pictures on the walls. I’d listen to stories about uncles who sold insurance, or daughters who were planning to pursue law, and I’d be fascinated. I could never understand why people wanted to know what a childhood full of clowns was like. I’d already lived it. Why should anyone else care?

  But I love my parents, and they do try their best.

  “Tell you what. Why don’t you bring the honking red nose, and if we see any kids we’ll put it on?” I suggest. Both of their faces light up, and they go to get ready while I set Chuckles back into his little cage. Archie’s seated below it, his little butt waggling in anticipation. Whether he’s trying to eat or screw the monkey, I can’t say.

  “Be a good guard dog.” I scratch Archie’s little ears and go put on my jacket.

  I check my phone for texts, but find nothing. Sighing, I try not to worry as I heft my purse onto my shoulder. Will usually sends me a quick message around this time. Being in Japan, he’s on a bonanza schedule that means we have about five minutes per day we can say hi to one another. But we find a way; in fact, we had a sushi date two nights ago. He had to bring his back to the hotel room, and mine was a breakfast sushi with eggs and bacon wrapped in rice—surprisingly good. But it was a lot of fun, Skyping and talking while we had dinner/breakfast. It was just like a regular date, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed seeing his face. How much I’d missed laughing, or mentally high-fiving myself when I made him laugh.

  On the other hand, at least Will being in Tokyo means he doesn’t have to run face first into my parents. I love Mom and Dad, but they are firmly wrapped up in their own little circus world. To someone I’m sort of semi-official with, the reality of the clown thing might be enough to shatter our insular little world. Like, it’s one thing to have great sex with someone. It’s another to realize that your potential future children might end up wanting to juggle professionally.

  Mom and Dad come out, makeup-less and ready to go. Dad holds up the red nose, squeezes it once for a squeak, and slips it back into Mom’s purse. They give each other that look: the one that says they’ve still got it—whatever it is—all these years later. I’d like to find that someday. If I can do it without the face paint, it will be all be that much sweeter.

  Before I can ask if we’re all ready to go, there’s a knock at the door. Crap, it might be the bird lady from upstairs. Mrs. Jimenez has two dozen parakeets that she teaches to sing in harmony, and she sometimes tries to get me to show up with Archie for an evening of Broadway show tunes. I actually went once. She made me popcorn.

  But I don’t have time for “Hello Dolly” tonight—and besides, it should be “Bye Bye Birdie,” let’s be real. I open the door to tell her that, only to find that Mrs. Jimenez has transformed herself into a well-built man of six feet tall. That wily sorceress, turning herself into my perhaps-potentially-boyfriend.

  Will’s standing in front of me, looking deliciously rumpled in a chic gray suit. It’s the kind of rumpled that implies getting off a plane having slept most of the way in business class. In his hand, he’s got a white paper bag. It smells delicious, and my stomach starts rumbling. Good thing I’m about to go to dinn
er.

  With my parents. Who are here. With clown noses. And Mrs. Jimenez can turn herself into other people. And it takes me a solid twelve seconds to realize that I’ve completely misinterpreted that last part.

  All I can think to say to this man standing in front of me with food and a confident smile is, “Is that teriyaki?”

  Breathless, that’s me.

  Will slides a hand around my waist, pressing me up against his body. I am now having thoughts filled with naked sofa sex and Japanese cuisine, and I want to tell you those images aren’t combined. I want to tell you that, to spare you. But I can’t.

  “I promised to bring some back, didn’t I?” He whispers these words against my neck, sending my body into hyper awareness and sensitivity. I can feel every bit of stubble that’s across his jaw, and my lips go to catch his as—

  “Hey now! Who’s this?” Dad honks a horn directly behind me, and I all but climb Will like a cat. Thank god I manage some self-control, because I’m pretty sure that would’ve sent both of us sprawling down the stairs. Dad’s adopted his most protective Dad look and his best fighting clown stance. Namely, he’s got a hand on the rubber end of a very large horn, and he’s not afraid to use it again.

  “Will Munroe.” He doesn’t skip a beat, only offers his hand to my dad to shake. “I’m the delivery guy.” He holds up the paper bag, and his wicked, joking-around face seems to win Dad over at once. He lowers the horn; we’re all safe at last.

  “Smells good,” Dad says conversationally as we let Will into the apartment. By let, I mean allow him to squeeze inside. Now that there’s four of us, a monkey, and a dog, the place is only going to remain standing so much longer. One of us will have to leave. I just don’t want it to be Will. Or if he leaves, I want us to go with him.

  Yes, good, putting brain to use there, Chelle. Invite big, strapping man along for dinner.

  Though that does mean he’ll have to spend quality time with my parents, and like I said earlier in the interior of my mind, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I mean, the horn thing is charming in its own way, but if they pull out the big rubber shoes…

  And you know they have at least one pair on them. Somewhere. Hiding.

  “I told Chelle I’d bring her teriyaki back from Japan.” Will smiles as my dad inspects it, with that slight questioning expression that is particular to men who get the impression their daughter is banging some guy. “Said I’d keep it warm,” he murmurs into my ear. Dear god, he’s a miracle worker.

  “How did you manage that?” I ask, gaping.

  “Got it from two blocks down in Little Tokyo.” He grins and winks. “Apparently they don’t want you bringing food through the airport and onto a plane. The things you discover.”

  “But you remembered.” I’m not going to swoon over chicken teriyaki. If it’s beef teriyaki, though, all bets are off. I’m swooning away. “I didn’t, well, know you were back.”

  “The deal closed earlier than we expected. There were some things to take care of at home.” My heart and my libido step into overdrive. “Amelia, for one.”

  Of course his daughter. Calm down, Chelle. Don’t embarrass yourself.

  “Plus, I had a delivery to make.” His eyes rake up and down my body on the sly, since my folks are here. But dear god, you can pack a lot of desire into one brief glance.

  Talk, Chelle. Say something that isn’t either “fuck me below the monkey cage” or “hrrrmmmm”.

  “We’re, ah, heading out for dinner.” Here it comes. Don’t freak out, Chelle. “Would you like to join us?” He’s going to say no now, because he got a good look at Dad. Or he’s going to realize that his prospective teriyaki sex night has been canceled, so what’s the point of even being here now? Or he’s going to become awkward and quiet, looking around my cramped apartment and the monkey swinging in its cage and come to the conclusion that this is too weird. This is all just too weird. You can’t bring Amelia into this place. In fact, he must be breaking up with me right now.

  That’s why he says, “I’d love to come. That’ll give us a chance to talk. Mr. Richardson?” he says, pointing to my dad in that kind of is it all right if I call you that way.

  Dad seems to like it, because he waves his hand. “Please. Call me Steve. Or Bonko.” Dad’s eyes light up. He likes the Bonko character a little too much, I sometimes think.

  Mom watches Will carefully, and I can sense that this is it. He’s going to think it’s weird, and he’s going to make a face, and that’s going to be it. I can feel it—

  “I like Bonko. It has a certain flavor to it.” Will shakes my dad’s hand, and now that someone has joined in with his crazy, Dad’s delighted.

  “You know, my kid’s got a birthday coming up. What would you say is good entertainment for a group of eleven year olds?” Will asks my parents as we all squeeze out the door. Five bucks says the answer will be clowns, which is advice he hopefully will not take.

  But he’s interested in their business, and wasn’t weirded out by Bonko. That means, in their book, he’s aces.

  And as we walk to the restaurant, I realize I’m feeling nearly giddy. Will didn’t just come to my apartment for a teriyaki sex fest. He wants to have dinner with my parents. He wants to discuss balloon animals for two hours just to spend time with me.

  I don’t think this is casual at all, and I think I like that.

  “So,” Will says when we’re seated back in his car, the seats warming and the engine purring. There’s a bit of leftovers between us, some very delicious sea bass wrapped up in a tinfoil swan. “You weren’t kidding about your parents.”

  “I never kid, sir,” I say, affecting a dramatic accent. Think Russian spy meets proper English countess. I don’t even know. “All I do is drink to forget.”

  When the dinner first got started, that’s exactly what I was prepared to do: drink until I couldn’t feel feelings anymore. You know how many gin and tonics it takes to get me good and toasty? The answer is ignoring the gin and tonics and going straight for the two fingers of neat scotch. Makes everything taste better.

  But as the night kept going, and the wine kept pouring, and Will didn’t mind discussing the intricacies of different hand buzzers, something amazing began to happen. I started to laugh. I started to feel less crazy than usual. Will was good with the parental units. Hell, more than good—he made them like him. Whether it was listening to crazy family stories of a clown reunion in Pensacola, or helping my mom figure out the best way to invest for a retirement trailer, he was always game. That kind of thing apparently makes me incredibly hot, because I’m now sitting beside him wanting another round of car sex. Maybe we could round the corner to some isolated spot…

  “I have a suggestion,” he says at last, handing me the swan. “My place. I missed you.” His hand leaves the swan and travels south, gently lifting up my skirt to skim along my thigh. My entire body shudders in pleasure as his fingers glide over the silk of my panties. Will leans over, his breath warm against my neck as he whispers, “Two weeks is too long.”

  “It was only nine days,” I murmur, giving him what I hope is a teasing smile and not an I can do math, go me look. Will kisses the back of my neck, and the numbers leave my head on a sweet tide of hormones.

  “Accuracy,” he says, his fingers gliding up my thigh again to just the right spot, “is very attractive in a woman.”

  Right now, I’m beginning to moan with need. God, we need to get back to his place, because I need to celebrate his return. What better way to celebrate than riding each other’s brains out?

  If everyone took my line of thinking, we’d be constantly looking for new things to celebrate. Perfect colonoscopy? Returned the library book on time? Here’s a Hallmark card, followed by sex. The world would be a much better place with me in charge, let me tell you.

  It’s amazing Will can get the door open with me practically climbing his body. My legs are already wrapped around his waist, and he balances me perfectly against him while finally
ushering us into his condo. Kicking the door closed behind him, he then walks me into the living room, pressing me up against the wall—and against his erection, let’s not forget that delicious detail.

  “Hold on.” I manage to scoot down, running my hands down his body as I lower myself to my knees. Even in the near darkness, my fingers find his belt buckle, and he inhales sharply as I start to undo his pants. Slowly, I tug at his boxers, revealing his cock, which is A) enormous and B) very ready for me.

  “What are you doing?” he growls, gasping when I take his cock in my hand and give one quick squeeze.

  “Can you guess?” I whisper, and lick him. Slowly, very slowly, I trail my tongue along the length of him, savoring how silken and steely he feels. Will throws his head back and groans as I kiss the very tip of him before slowly taking him into my mouth. I ease him inside slowly, tasting the salt and steel of him. I run my hand back down to the base of his cock, squeezing rhythmically as my head begins to bob back and forth.

  “That’s right. That’s perfect,” he moans, bracing his hands against the wall. “Don’t stop, Chelle. Don’t fucking stop.”

  Happy to oblige, my tongue swirls around him. God, he’s so thick, and the tension in his body as I continue only makes me happier. I love knowing that I’m driving him crazy, that I’m making his breathing deeper and more ragged. He fists my hair, guiding me along faster. I take my time then, dragging it out. I enjoy listening to him moan—in fact, I think I love it.

  “Chelle,” he whispers, repeating my name over and over again. I run my hands up and down his legs, rock hard with muscle. I take his cock again, squeezing the base before I slide him as deep into my mouth as I can. This goes almost too far, but still I take my time drawing him out of my mouth. I love how his breathing hitches, how he sounds on the verge of coming undone when I suck on the tip of him, swirling my tongue around and around again.