Boston (8 page)

“Okay.” Chelle’s voice holds satisfaction. “I’m ready when you are.” She flicks a switch on the dock and the iPod speakers start to pant and sweat out something with a sexy thrum.

Annalise closes her eyes and sways to the beat, then rocks her hips provocatively, grinding into Boston behind her. He laughs and grabs her around the waist and puts his lips onto her neck, and I can’t look away. I want him so badly, and there he is with his arms all over his ex, so casual and possessive and comfortable.

“Abby, direct,” Chelle orders me, and I start, then blush. Boston is holding Annalise’s breasts, but he’s looking right at me. I mean, his eyes are locked onto mine, like a, well, a spaceship about to blow someone else up. Or something.

“Tell me what to do, Abs,” he says, and I feel an immediate spike of arousal between my legs, because I want his hands on my breasts. I want it to be my ass pushing into his thighs. I suck in my breath and keep my voice even, even as his eyes burn into mine.

“Caress her breasts, Boston,” I say, and my voice is husky. “Touch the nipples.”

“Yeah? Like this?” Boston’s eyes gleam and his fingers work Annalise’s skin. I gasp out loud, almost feeling the sensation in my own nipples, which have hardened into nubs under my shirt and are tingling. I want to touch them myself. I’m dying to touch them. The camera makes soft shushing and clicking noises and Chelle adjusts, shoots, shoots, shoots.

Annalise squeaks. “Too hard, Boston. You know I don’t like that.”

“Sorry, babe.” His eyes are still on me as he strokes her softly, pulling the nipples out and rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger. “What now, Abs?” It’s like his voice is honey, dripping into my ear, and I shudder.

“Bend your head down,” I instruct him. “Lick her neck slowly, and then bite it. But don’t look away from the camera. I want to see your face in this picture. Annalise, close your eyes and look like you’re caught up in passion.”

But I’ve almost forgotten that Annalise is there. All I can focus on is him. He smiles at me, a knowing grin. “You like a little tongue or a lot, Abby?”

“Just a tease,” I say; my voice is hoarser than before, and I clear my throat. “Tease her neck. Make her want you, bad. Then suck her. Bite her neck where you licked it. Let your tongue be a promise and a threat.”

“A promise and a threat,” he repeats, and smiles again, then deliberately swipes his tongue up Annalise’s neck. I bite my lip and put my hand to my own neck, touching with my index finger. I trace the finger up as he licks her skin.

She giggles in alarm. “Eeeee! Boston! I’m ticklish there. Be careful.” She wriggles and rearranges herself, adjusts her thong one or three times, then takes a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“Ready?” Boston is looking at me.

Annalise’s voice is impatient. “I said I was. Go, okay? Let’s do this.” But his smile is for me now, and he repeats, “Ready?” and then licks her neck again, maintaining eye contact with me the entire time.

By now my whole body is throbbing with arousal and I can barely stand still. Watching him touch her, but having his eyes on me, is something I could never have imagined would turn me on. And yet here I am, panties damp, nipples throbbing, body quivering. All because he’s licking someone else’s neck and looking at me with that wicked grin.

God.

Chelle is a contained tornado, and I glance over. It’s like she’s playing an instrument; her index finger is pushing buttons and twisting a dial, her other hand is adjusting another dial, she’s stepping back and forward, moving incrementally, her whole focus on Boston and Annalise. It’s like a strange dance. I’ve gotten so absorbed in Boston that I forgot Chelle was here, too, doing her thing. While I was waltzing with him and Annalise, she was, too. I shake my head, surprised at how strange and yet right this is: How each of us is tied to the others in a complex array of emotion, need, give and take. How we’re all together here, but our focus is so individual and compartmentalized.

“Command me, Abby.” Boston’s voice is lazy and low.

I swallow hard. “Now I want you to wrap one arm around her waist and drop the other one down to her panties and play with the string. Use your fingers to glide under the fabric.”

“I can do that, Abby.” He splays the fingers of one strong hand on Annalise’s waist and slides the other hand lower, lower, bending over a bit to reach properly. Beside me, Chelle clicks.

I’m mesmerized as Boston uses his index finger to snap the lacy string of Annalise’s panties. Then he slides two fingers down into the top of the fabric and rubs.

“Oh, yeah, that’s amazing,” Chelle murmurs, and I sense a new energy from her that wasn’t there before. “Annalise, shift your weight to your left leg and push into him harder. Boston, tighten your abs more. This is going to be the money shot!” she says, and whether it’s to me or herself or to the universe, I can’t say.

Boston is still looking at me. “Touch yourself,” he mouths to me. At least I think that’s what he said.

My heart pounds, and I must have some crazy expression on my face because he laughs softly. Annalise’s eyes are shut, her head thrown back in ecstasy, and whether it’s real or mock I can’t tell that either, and I don’t care. I’m a few steps behind Chelle now, and she’s so absorbed in shooting that she’s forgotten me.

I stare at Boston, and he raises one eyebrow. He lets his fingers slip lower into the front of Annalise’s panties and she moves one leg. Did he really just tell me to touch myself while he’s touching her and there’s a photographer in the room?

I don’t think I’ve looked at someone this long in forever. His eyes are making me insane. I want to touch myself, and how can that be? How can a writer who’s never so much as visited a sex club suddenly want to masturbate in front of three other people? These things just don’t happen in real life. They just don’t! Besides, how could I? It would be inconsiderate to Chelle and Annalise, wouldn’t it?

But they’re not even looking, and I suddenly want to tease Boston the way he’s teasing me, using Annalise as a living doll prop. So I sit on a large wooden box, slide my thighs apart slowly, and smile at him.

His mouth opens slightly; he knows what I’m doing. And he knows I know. Then he shakes his head a little bit and the smile grows. “What now, Abby?” he asks. His voice is harder.

I answer. “Keep doing that. Don’t stop.”

“I can keep doing this for as long as you want,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking.

“Me, too,” I say, making his head snap up at me. “Eyes front,” I remind him. “Readers want to see your face and know you’re thinking of them even while you touch her.”

His eyes are on mine now, and Annalise’s are still shut, so I do something that I should only do in a fantasy, in a dream, in my fevered mind at bedtime in my dark room: I point my toes, knees still spread, throw my head back, and let my fingers glide slowly down the crotch of my jeans, and I stroke along my body.

I can’t feel much through the thick fabric, and besides, the cloth has pulled out from my pose and prevents my fingers from making any direct contact. But I know it looks fucking dirty as hell, because something changes in Boston’s face and pose, and suddenly the entire dynamic of him and Annalise is raw and powerful.

“Yes!” shouts Chelle, almost like she’s having her own orgasm, and her finger works the camera fast. “Now this is it. This is it. Keep it up. Yes.”

Boston and Annalise shift, move together, shift back and she keeps shooting. If the other shot was a money shot, this one must be a lottery winner: The sexuality pouring from Boston is enough to make me come right here, right in my jeans, sitting on this battered wooden box. I only touched myself the one time, but it’s like I still am, because he’s staring at me and this time there’s no doubt: This man wants to take me, fuck me, own me. Even though he has a goddamn supermodel in his arms. And that is the most insane, pleasurable, fantastic compliment I have ever received in my whole entire life. For the moment, I feel like that angel in gold, flying on a stage in front of a screaming audience—nothing matters but the look in Boston’s eyes.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Chelle steps back from the camera. “Okay!” she says, her voice loud and excited. “Guys, that was amazing. Take a break and we’ll set up for the next set of shots. I can’t believe how powerful those shots are.” Her voice is full of raw enthusiasm. “Abby, I think having you here is the magic charm. I’ve never seen sexual tension like that before from these two. These photos are going to be so hot, I’m just so excited. And I got the lighting so perfect.” Her voice is quivery with emotion. “I can’t wait to get these into Photoshop. I’m going to work on them tonight. I don’t even think I’ll sleep.” Does she have tears in her eyes?

I’ve felt it before, and I feel it again now: Being around any kind of artist who gets so immersed in their work is a special privilege. Witnessing Chelle’s emotion at the success of the shoot is like watching something completely personal and private, like the birth of a baby. A first kiss. It’s tender and delicate and almost embarrassing, but Chelle isn’t embarrassed. She’s exuberant.

I know how she feels, because I feel that way, too, sometimes, when I get into the zone and my words flow like water from my fingers, taking the shape of something magical and mysterious, a container that my mind is spinning only as my fingers move, together building something new and miraculous and fresh. Something that I want to spend time with because it’s so fragile and beautiful and captures my emotions exactly.

Annalise yawns and rubs one eye with a delicate touch. Then she makes a small grimace and adjusts the string of her thong so it lies flush against her body again. She’s the only one here who seems untouched by the passion thrumming through the room. “My contact is dry,” she observes. “My eye was botherin’ me the entire time. I need solution.” She stretches and walks to her shoulder bag, extricates a small beaded purse. As she unzips it and pulls out a tiny bottle, the bell rings again.

Boston frowns. “Expecting anyone, Chelle?”

She shakes her head. “No?”

But my heart drops when I hear the voice at the door, an easy familiar voice that once sent sparks of excitement through me at its dark timbre: “Hey, Parker. I have the revised contract ready for you and Abby.” It’s Erik.

“Erik.” I shake my head. “You didn’t have to come all this way. I could have picked it up tomorrow.” But I can hear the affection in my tone. I know what he’s doing here. He’s checking up on me. Even though we’re not together, and even though it drives me crazy, it still sends a small trickle of happy satisfaction through me that he cares enough to do it. It makes me feel treasured, and who doesn’t want that?

I’m going to be honest: Sometimes, I like showing off my ex. There, I said it. He’s sexy, smart, successful, and hot as hell. And he still cares about me as a friend. Sometimes it’s nice to just, you know, toss that out there. “Oh, and this is my ex. He still checks up on me.” It shouldn’t be that a thing like that makes me important, or makes me feel important, but sometimes it does. Especially around really pretty people, like Annalise and Boston. I don’t like that I want to use Erik’s concern to make myself seem more appealing, but the fact is that I do it anyway.

Erik wipes his feet on the mat and shakes rain from his jacket, slides it off, and puts it on the rack near the door. There are droplets of water on his hair and jawline. He sidesteps around Boston and comes to me, sweeps me up into a hug that’s just a shade over platonic. He’s not built like Boston, but he’s tall and toned. He bikes—competition quality—and he’s lean and concise in his body and his movement, but also strong and sexy. For some crazy reason, I remember the small dip at the side of his hip where I used to like to put my tongue.

He smiles at Chelle. “I’m sorry to just barge in. I figured you’d want the contract ASAP. And I admit that I was curious to see how it all works over here.” Annalise makes a little sound from the far side of the room where she’s just come back in with her contact case, his glance catches on her, and his entire face changes. He flushes and looks down, then up, then says, “I’m sorry to stare, but you’re—naked. I shouldn’t—I’m sorry. I interrupted. Are you, do you need to get—I mean, dressed? I’m sorry. I really should have called your cell first, Abs.” He has a brilliant red flush along his jaw and he turns his body away from her.

Annalise’s face is bright pink and she stammers. I’ve never heard her stammer. “Oh, um, it’s okay. I’m just, you know, I’m a model and sometimes, it’s totally okay. But yes, I’m just goin’ to, yeah.” She grabs at her shirt, misses, then slides it over her head. She swallows hard and crosses her arms over her chest. “Um, so Abby, this is?”

“Oh, let me do introductions.” I step forward. “This is my—Erik. Erik is a lawyer and an adjunct law professor at Harvard. He did our contract. Erik, this is Annalise. She’s a model and…” I break off, not sure what else Annalise is, if anything. I sort of feel bad that I never asked. Or cared.

Erik turns around again and steps forward, almost tripping on his shoe, and extends his hand. “I’m Erik. Oh, Abby just said it. Erik. It’s nice to meet you.”

Annalise’s eyes are on the floor. “I’m Annalise. It’s nice to meet you, too. Um, I’m also a waitress and bartender. At Houlihan’s? It’s the bar on Elm and Market?” She bites her lip and extends her hand, and there is an awkward shake.

I fill the sudden silence. “And this is Chelle, makeup artist and expert photographer.”

Erik nods, puts his hands in his pockets, and rocks on his heels. “This is a great studio,” he says, looking around, his voice conveying genuine admiration. That’s one thing I always liked about Erik—his generosity with compliments, his ability to put people at ease with his calm personality.

Chelle likes him already, I can tell. She smiles. “We’ve worked hard to get it set up like this,” she explains. “In the beginning money was tight ,and it still is, but we’re plugging away.”

Boston’s voice is terse. “We’re doing fine,” he says. “We’re getting more clients every day. The business is growing fast.” He unfolds a light stand and bangs it onto the floor. Usually he’s so careful with his equipment.

“Well, yeah, of course,” Chelle says, a little wrinkle in her brow. “But we’re still new.”

Annalise looks up. “So you teach at Harvard?” Her voice is almost reverent. “You said, ad—adjunct?” Her voice stumbles over the word.

Erik catches the conversation and smooths it along. “I teach part time. It’s a perfect mix for me. I get to spend time working with students, which I love. And then I get to be a lawyer.”

“Do you get to travel a lot?” Her voice is stronger now, her eyes shining.

Erik’s looking right at her. “I do, actually,” he says. “I travel to a lot of conferences for work that focus on the legalities involved in economic and fiscal policy worldwide. Last month I attended a seminar in Prague. I was in Japan and Germany already this year, and will also be going to Russia.”

“Wow.” Annalise draws out the word. “I’ve never been out of Boston, barely. I mean, I once went to a funeral in Wisconsin when I was a kid, my uncle Bertie, the older Bertie. It was just me and my mom and my sistah, and we had to drive there in our old station wagon and it was a really long drive, and we broke down on the highway somewhere in Ohio. It was raining and we’d just stopped at a KFC and we were stuck there for an hour. And I had to hold the hot greasy bucket of chicken on my lap the whole time. I was terrified that we were stuck forever.”

She bites her lip. “Sorry. I tend to babble on sometimes. Don’t mind me.”

Erik steps forward, then arrests himself. “No, I really want to hear it. I mean, that’s interesting. How old were you at the time?”

Annalise blinks, then her smile grows and she looks up at him. “I was like nine, I think. After that night, I decided I wanted to learn about cars, you know? So when we finally got back home, after the funeral, which was an adventure and a half, I got my other uncle Bertie, the one who didn’t die, Bertie Younger, we call him, to teach me. I learned how to change tires and oil and every kind of belt that exists. If you can fix it without a computer, or even with one, I can do it. I never wanted to feel that helpless again.”

“So you can work on cars?” Erik’s voice is surprised.

Annalise sounds defensive. “I’m good, too. Sometimes I work part time in Bertie Younger’s garage. It’s just tough because the guys, well, the guys who come in tend to hit on me and assume I’m stupid and that I can’t possibly know anything about automotive technology. So I usually stay in the back and do stuff behind the scenes.” Her voice trails off.

Boston cuts in. “We need to get this shoot finished.”

“I shouldn’t have interrupted,” Erik apologizes. “I also wanted to give you that thing from my mom, Abs. She knitted a batch of winter caps with that design you liked last Thanksgiving and told me to give you the red one.”

Now I remember some of the things that used to annoy me about Erik—this way he sort of fills up a room, a situation, until he’s done. The way things need to be done on his timeline, all the time.

He rummages in his black case, hands me a Ziploc bag with a red wadded-up thing inside of it. I smile, pull it out, and put it on—a lovely hand-crocheted hat, stylish and chic. “It’s beautiful. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Erik laughs. “You’re always welcome at the house, you know that. Mom wants you to come along on the family trip to France. Going to that same vineyard.”

I snort. “You know I can’t come to France with you. Be reasonable. I have to work and stuff. And we’re not even dating! Anyway, why would I want to get that disgusting wine you all treated like cocaine?” I feel wistful, though; Erik’s family is fun.

“Please. That stuff was the nectar of the gods, and you were being a philistine.” He teases me, pulls the hat from my head, tosses it up like a ball and catches it. “And you break my heart with that comment.” He puts a hand over his heart, acting wounded. “You’re treading on my dreams.” He clears his throat. “Reminds me of a poem by Yeats. Want me to recite it, so you can feel bad about mocking my wine choices?”

I hit him and say, “No, idiot!” just as Annalise blurts out, “Yes, please.”

I sort of jerk my head and stare at her, and she bites her lip. Then she says, “I mean, only if he really wants to tell a poem, and stuff.”

“Sure, okay.” Erik blinks a few times and seems to flush. Then he takes a breath, and slides his glance to Annalise. His voice is low but sure.

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light—”

Annalise makes a sound in her throat and stands taller. “I know this one! I know it.” Her voice quivers a little bit, and she busts out with,

“I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, having only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

She’s saying the words like she knows them, confident, full of passion. She’s not stuttering or stopping on any of them, before she breaks off, flushed. Her eyes dart around and she sort of shrinks into herself at all the gazes on her. I’ll be honest: I’m startled. I had no idea she had that in her.

Erik’s whole body leans toward her. “You know Yeats?” His eyebrows are pretty much in his hairline.

“So I like poetry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not a big deal or anything. I can Google, too, you know.” She taps her foot on the floor. “Yeah. I do like him. I, uh. I even, uh… sometimes,” her face is beet red, “try to read the poems in Spanish translation and all, too. Just for fun. I don’t speak it or anything,” she adds quickly, almost angrily, “but it’s fun to, you know, read them together and find out which word means itself. To learn stuff.” She couldn’t be smaller now if she tried. Her arms are so tight across her body that she looks like she’s in a straitjacket of her own making, and I feel a sudden impulse of empathy for her. I don’t really understand why, but telling us about this seems to be a huge deal for her.

Suddenly, I do understand. Annalise is under-confident, too! This hits me like a sudden storm out of the blue sky, shaking me to my foundation, and I peer at her, trying to see inside her skin, into her soul. I feel a mix of utter gratitude and sympathy at once. The fact that she’s insecure, too? It makes me feel like we have more in common than I ever thought. And I look through her eyes at me and Erik, and see two people with advanced degrees, people who toss around big words like they’re popcorn, people who delight in similes and metaphors, who do research for fun. Maybe she feels about me and Erik the way I feel about her and Boston, like she could never fit into this puzzle.

Erik steps closer. “You memorized it?” His voice is gentle, but rapt.

Annalise nods, then meets his gaze. “Yeah. I memorize, actually, a lot of poems.” She swallows. “This one, you know? I don’t have a lot of—I mean, I’m not super rich or anything. But I have plans, dreams. I’m going places. I like this one. It reminds me of—me, I guess.”

Boston makes a small sound in his throat. “Annalise. You ready? Seriously, we need to get started soon.” He’s not looking at me, and his motions are spare, fast. He’s arranging a chair and stripping some petals from a rose, which he’s going to run over her skin for some of the shots.

“No. I have to put on my other outfit. The white negligee and matching panties.” She disappears into the bathroom with her bag, and there is a sudden silence.

Erik crosses his arms and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Parker,” he said. “I read your website when Abs told me she was doing this job with you. I love your work, man. You show real artistry and talent.” His gaze flickers to the bathroom door.

“Thanks.” Boston is terse.

Erik continues. “And your tutorial articles are insightful and well-written. Have you ever considered teaching?”

Boston’s voice lacks emotion. “I graduated from Quincy High School when I was seventeen, and my college took place on the streets. I don’t know if my résumé would impress the dean of studies at Harvard.”

I’m taken aback, and I know Erik feels it, too, because he shoots me a look, one of the looks where we communicate without talking. That’s one thing I always had with Erik, the ability to tilt my head and tell him “I want to go home now,” or “That person is pissed off.”

Boston sees us exchange the look and I suddenly feel—what. I can’t describe it. I feel like a kid caught sneaking candy, or something. I feel like a shoplifter. I feel like a peeping Tom who’s been looking in on something intimate and just got caught. I think that Boston thinks that we think we’re better than he is because we have advanced college degrees—and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle this.

I don’t want to be on “Team College” with Erik, with Boston and Annalise somehow forced—or forcing themselves —onto “Team College Of Hard Knocks.” Frankly, I’d rather be on “Team Screw Education And Let’s Have Sex” with Boston. And I don’t want to be on any team with Erik other than “We’re Just Friends Now Even If Your Mom Makes Me Hats And We Joke About Wine.”

Erik tries to fix it. “Well, sure, but there are so many options. I mean, how about at a local community college? You don’t need a degree to teach at the local parks and rec.”

Boston’s voice is flat. “For eight dollars an hour? Thanks, but no thanks. I could make more babysitting, like my teenage cousin.”

Annalise is back, and Erik stands there for a minute. “Well, I guess I should go, Abs.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Nice to meet you, Chelle. And Annalise. It was really nice to meeting, uh, to meet you, too.” He’s flushed again.