Accelerated (18 page)

“I … uh …”

From across the table, Jess was staring. Great.
Now
he had her attention.

He gave a thoughtful nod. “Real,” he said, freeing his hand. “Definitely real.”

Melissa Morrissey smiled. “No one believes it until they’ve felt for themselves.”

On her right, Art was describing an orgy he’d been to a few nights before at some hedge fund guy’s house. “Don’t get me wrong, I took full advantage of the situation.” He laughed like a dirty old man. “But if I’d been thirty years younger, well, let’s just say there was a lot I didn’t get to.”

Sean snuck a peek at Jess. The waitress was filling Clinton’s glass with red wine. “Chateaux Palmer.” Clinton nodded. “Very nice.” Then he leaned toward Jess, chummily. “It’s good to have friends who drink good wine.” Clinton raised his glass. “A pleasure to meet you, Jess.”

“Likewise.” She toasted with him.

From across the table, Sean studied the former president. There was something about him that was both appealing and unusual. The guy looked happy. Like he enjoyed his life. Why wouldn’t he? He’d been president of the United States. Twice over. His ease stood in stark contrast to the twitchy guy who sat a few seats away. He turned out to be a billionaire Google geek and chewed nervously like a bunny under surveillance.

Sean tried eavesdropping on their conversation, but Melissa Morrissey was reciting a monologue from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
and it was hard to hear.

“So Jess,” Clinton said. “What do you do for a living?”

“I teach third grade.”

“Good teachers are the key to the future.” He delivered the line with a flourish Sean thought was over the top. “Where do you teach?”

When she told him she taught at Bradley, his eyes lit up. “No!”

She nodded.

“Art,” Clinton exclaimed. Art looked up from fondling Melissa Morrissey’s boa. “This young lady teaches at your alma mater.”

“How spectacular,” Art said.

“Sean’s son is in my class,” Jess said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Art looked at Sean. “I knew you were good people!” His expression expanded. “You must have a hell of a bright son.”

“Toby’s a great kid,” Sean said. He sat up taller and hated himself for doing it. “I didn’t know you went to—”

“Ah, Bradley. Some of my best memories are from there.”

“Childhood memories are always the strongest,” Clinton mused. “The good ones and the bad ones.”

Sean thought about Calvin, who would never get to look back on his childhood memories. While he was sitting at Art Crandall’s rich-people party, Calvin’s parents were mourning their son. A flush of guilt and of missing Toby took hold of him.

Clinton turned to Jess. “But let’s talk more about you. Tell me about what you do. What are your dreams, what makes you happy?”

“I teach handwriting to eight-year-olds.” Her delivery was dry. Perfect. “I love it.” There was something about the way she was with him. It wasn’t flirtatious exactly. Or maybe it was. Which was driving Sean slightly crazy.

“Jess is a great teacher,” Sean said, lamely. If he could get into their conversation, maybe she’d remember who she came with.

Next to Clinton, a Swiss diplomat was slurring as he told the president of EMI about his high school garage band.

Clinton glanced across the table at Sean, then back at Jess. “That does not surprise me one bit,” he said. “I bet all the boys have crushes on you.”

She ignored the compliment. “I’d love to hear about what
you’re
doing now.” She turned to Sean. “Wouldn’t you?”

Almost as much as he wanted to have his fingernails plucked out one by one. “Absolutely.”

“Okay.” Clinton’s body language said
I’m all yours
. “Ask away.”

Rick, who’d been debating the relevance of pop culture throughout history with the head of the New York Public Library, suddenly noticed the progressively intimate dynamic between Jess and her seatmate. Sean watched him spring to action.

“I actually have a question,” he said, loudly enough so Clinton would know this was directed at him. “If I’m not butting in.”

Clinton grudgingly turned away from Jess. “Not at all,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Rick Hollingsworth. I used to be a senior editor at
The Economist
. There are some things I’ve always wanted to ask you about your economic policy.”

There was no doubt about it, Rick was a good friend. Jess caught Sean’s eye across the table and shook her head as if to say
I cannot believe you two
. He shrugged innocently:
no idea what you’re talking about
.

Rick turned to the woman who sat on Clinton’s other side. “You don’t mind, do you?” He gestured to her seat. “It might be easier.” The woman got up and actually changed places with him.

After they’d finished dinner, Art threw down his napkin. “It’s time to start the dancing.” He led everyone through a secret door that had been cut into one of the deep red walls. On the other side, ten small tables, each glowing with a single votive candle, framed a dance floor. A buff male model posed behind a full bar. Onstage, the champagne waitress was slapping a bass guitar and bouncing around with an equally young, beautiful band. The music was loud and whatever they were playing was catchy. Sean hadn’t wanted to dance in years, but now he wanted to dance. With Jess. He turned to ask her, but she wasn’t there. He scanned the room desperately.

It seemed like another twenty people had piled in. Art was grinding with an ingenue. The Swiss diplomat, who was by far the most wasted of the guests, gyrated alone, eyes closed, in the center of the dance floor.

The lights swirled and the bass shook Sean’s kidneys. He spotted Jess across the room and windshield-wipered his arms, stopping only when Clinton, the bastard, appeared next to her and held out his hand, an offer to dance. She hesitated, then smiled and followed him to the dance floor.

Sean took up residence at the bar as Clinton, or
Bill
, as he’d asked Jess to call him, spun her around the floor for two interminable songs. They looked like they were having a good old time.

Sean drank a vodka tonic, then another. When he saw Jess beg off the dance floor, he took her a glass of water.

“You’re psychic,” she said, taking a long drink. “Thanks.”

“You looked great out there.” He tried not to sound pathetic. It was all going wrong, and he wasn’t sure how to turn it around.

“She’s a great dancer,” Clinton said. He touched the arm Sean had no claim on. Then Jess did an amazing thing. She took a step away from Clinton and slipped her arm through Sean’s. Not in an intimate way. Maybe in solidarity as the two most out-of-place people at this thing. Still, he couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. What had he been worried about, anyway?

“Bill’s giving a lecture at the NYU law school next week,” Jess said.

“It’s on the moral imperative of lawmakers,” Clinton said. “You should check it out. If you want.”

Sean shrugged. “Why not?” It was the motto for the evening, but he could think of a million reasons why not.

“Great,” Clinton said. “Next Wednesday at seven.” He winked at them. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

When he was gone, Jess said, “That was weird,” and led Sean to the dance floor.

Almost as soon as they joined the pack of sweaty people dancing, the music stopped. There was some commotion, and when things settled he saw what all the fuss was about.

Jess gaped. “No fucking way.”

She was adorable when she said fuck.

“Way,” he said, not taking his eyes off Bruce Springsteen, who was tuning his guitar.

Soon, Bruce was rocking out on Art’s small stage, unleashing that classic Springsteen sound. He was so close, Sean could almost reach out and touch him. Bruce Springsteen. The Boss. It was crazy. Stuff like this didn’t happen. He tried to take it all in, how the room shook with the big guitar sound, the voice he’d listened to all through high school and college. The bodies around them jumped and grooved, on fire in the presence of the Boss. Jess was no exception. She knew all the words and was singing them at the top of her lungs. The crowd fed off itself and the Boss fed off the energy of the crowd. He played for over an hour without coming up for air. When it was over, Sean was dripping, exhausted, and exhilarated.

“Water,” Jess gasped. On the way to the bar, they brushed past the tech nerd. He was pressing his body up against Melissa Morrissey in a corner, his tongue shoved down her throat, his hands creeping up under her evening dress as she clawed at his back.

“They’re
glad everyone had to sign a release,” Jess said.

“Yeah. I’m
sure
that’s what they’re thinking right now.”

It was four in the morning by the time the guests stumbled down the stairs to the foyer. Art kissed Jess’s cheek, saying “Beautiful, beautiful!”

Jess pulled a black wrap around her shoulders. It was flimsy and sexy and when they stepped out into the cold morning, he realized it was nowhere near warm enough.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked, after they’d climbed into the idling taxi.

“Um,” he turned to Jess. “Where do you live?”

“Can you drop me at 103rd and Riverside? I’m still staying with Bev.”

“Or you could come back to my place.” It was worth a shot, wasn’t it? “To compare notes.”

She hesitated, which he took as a good sign. “It’s kind of late.”

Late was so relative. “The sun’s not up yet.”

She gave him a grateful, tipsy smile, then shook her head. “I should get back.”

“You have fifty blocks to change your mind.”

She collapsed back on the leather seat. “That was an amazing night.” She touched his leg for emphasis. “I’m so glad you asked me.”

Her hand lingered on his leg in a way that could have been platonic. Or not.

“It wouldn’t have been any fun without you.” He put his hand over hers. To see what that would be like. Her skin was perfect, completely smooth and still the same temperature as his. He’d never noticed someone’s skin temperature before. Maybe because no one else’s skin had ever been exactly the same temperature. And then there was something like humming when his skin came in contact with hers. He fought the impulse to run his hand up her arm, to kiss her neck. He should remove his hand and try to stop imagining her out of that dress.

Before he could move, he felt something. He waited to make sure. Then she did it again. Jess had started to stroke the side of his thigh with her thumb. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

He moved his hand up her arm slowly, feeling every inch he’d been fantasizing about, continuing over the graceful curve of her shoulder and up her neck. When his hand stroked her hair, she turned to face him. She wanted him. He was pretty sure. He should kiss her. Right now. Give her a light kiss on the mouth, almost a brushing of lips, and she could decide. But what if he was wrong? What if she was simply being, what, friendly? It was a moment of crisis. And try as he might, he couldn’t forget the inconvenient fact that in addition to being a gorgeous woman who happened to be caressing his thigh, Jess
was
also Toby’s teacher. Nevertheless, his desire had progressed into a powerful ache that was traveling from his groin to his chest.

He couldn’t think. The next moment, her hand was on the side of his face, pulling him toward her. Then they were kissing—more like devouring—each other and pulling at each others’ clothes.

Her tongue was in his ear, but somehow she managed to say, “Your house. Hurry.”

When they got to 110th Street, he threw some money at the driver. They tried to keep their hands off of each other as they passed the obese night doorman Sean almost never saw.

He dropped the keys at least three times before managing to open the front door. His legs were weak. His body was shaking. It had one directive and luckily for him, Jess’s body seemed happy to oblige. Ferociously so. They’d generated a decent amount of heat on the ride uptown, and now that they were inside, he had no intention of waiting another second. He kicked Toby’s scooter out of the way, pressed her against the hall closet and set to work getting her out of her dress. Zipper? Tie? Hooks? The detail work was frustrating. He hiked up her skirt, slid off her underwear and tossed them aside. She pulled at the buttons on his shirt but it was taking too long. Her hands aimed lower and unbuckled his belt.

There was no time to think, to decide, to choose. He knew he was supposed to care about school and the fiancé, but he didn’t. Not in the least. Everything else but this exact moment had dropped away. He wanted Jess—all of her—as quickly as humanly possible.

Walking the extra steps to the bedroom, or even the living room, seemed an extravagant waste of time and effort when everything in his universe was pointing toward Jess. He hoisted her up before he’d settled on a plan. Not only didn’t she seem to mind, the spontaneity and weird vertical position seemed to excite her even more. She worked his boxers down, though he couldn’t tell if she’d used her hands or feet or both, before wrapping her legs around him. It wasn’t as logistically difficult as he’d imagined it would be once they got into a rhythm. Jess had figured out how to raise and lower herself using just the strength of her legs. She weighed nothing. Either gravity had disappeared or he had superhuman strength. Tonight, he decided, anything was possible. This moment was a clear example of that.

In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have imagined the heat and intensity that was coming off of her. It couldn’t have been more different from screwing Cheryl in the bathroom.

Nothing had felt this urgent in years. Maybe ever. Had it been this way with Ellie at the beginning? He couldn’t remember and didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was focus on the way Jess smelled, the way her body was moving, and the sounds she was making. He was blurry with desire and the overload of sensation and almost fell over when Jess’s body began to shake. He tried to spread his legs wider for a better foundation, even though his ankles were still shackled by his boxers. The shaking set off a reaction in him that involved his entire body seizing up and releasing. Without warning, his legs went wobbly and staying upright became much harder. And though his problem-solving skills were impaired, he managed to anchor himself against the closet doors to keep from falling over.