Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (8 page)

Crowd:
Grin, grin, grin.

“
I mean, one minute I’m in New York eating a hot dog and holding a brunette.” Then, as though speaking only to himself, “Or was that holding a hot dog and eating a brunette . . .”

Nico:
Comedic pause.

Crowd:
Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.

Nico:
Head shake.

“And the next minute
,” He slid his arms around my waist, pulled my back to his chest. “I’m in Iowa holding a blonde, but I’m still hungry.”

His hands
moved with familiarity, resting on my stomach. If he’d been anyone else I would have stepped out of the embrace. But, for some reason, he seemed to have all of us under some kind of hex or enchantment or sexy Italian voodoo mojo.

My brain told me it was the celebrity cloud.
My heart told me it was just Nico being Nico.

“What I really want to know is
 . . .” He leaned close to my ear and glanced over my shoulder; I could tell he was looking down the front of my dress. “What happened to the hot dog?”

Crowd:
Laugh, laugh, laugh
.

It wasn’t so much what he said, it was how he said it.
He possessed showmanship, swagger, confidence, and just the right shade of weirdly laudable chauvinism.

And I was a prop.
I felt my face flame, and I tried to step forward, out of his arms.

“Whoa
—you’re not going anywhere until you return my hot dog.”

“That’s what she
said.” Sandra supplied, indicating her chin toward me, and the whole group roared with laughter.

I
felt the reverberations of Nico’s laugh at my back and knew his intent before he turned me to face him. He didn’t look at me as he tucked me under his arm and led me away from the group. They all seemed satisfied with his little performance and happy to have basked in his witty shadow, even for a short time.

I clenched my jaw and willed my feet to stop.

Brain:
Stop, feet.

Feet
:
. . . I like cookies.

My feet
kept moving.

I was equal parts mortified, annoyed, and confused. Nico’s hold on me was not
entirely related to the strong arm over my shoulders. Nonsensically, I knew I still felt guilty about my behavior as a sixteen year old and, due to years and mountains of remorse, I felt indebted to him. I felt I owed him.

I hated it.

So I allowed myself to be led past his table to the dance floor just as the first notes of “True”
by Spandau Ballet drifted out of the speakers. I struggled against an eye roll.

Slow d
ancing in my high school gym with the most popular guy in school, I was suddenly the protagonist in a 1980s Jon Hughes movie.

Nico placed my hands behind his neck
and skimmed his long fingers down my bare arms to my waist, sending shivers and goose bumps racing over my skin. He pressed my body to his tall, lean form, and we swayed to the music.

I swallowed.

He smiled at me. It was an irresponsible, dreamy, devastating sex on a stick smile.

I swallowed again.

Nico was a good dancer. I never danced with him while we were in school, but I remembered watching him dance with other girls at homecoming or our high school prom. He was one of those guys whose rhythm and corresponding movements fused effortlessly with the music, like the music took its cue from him and not the other way around.

I was at a loss. Part of me
—the part that endured a half-decade of merciless teasing—wanted to glance around the room and feign boredom. Another part of me—the part that was held every night for four months—wanted him to hold me close, stroke my back, tell me I was forgiven for treating him so shamefully.

Both parts were
trapped in the quicksand of his gaze and web of his body. He seemed content to simply look at me. We traded stares for several long moments. I felt hot.

One of us
needed
to say something, and I realized it wasn’t going to be him. I tried to think of something to talk about, but felt every topic was a minefield of either innuendo or historical baggage. I finally settled on something most people would want to know.

I cleared my throat before
I said, “So, your show.”

He blinked at me, almost as though
my voice startled him, then his lips twitched. “My show.”

I cleared my throat again.
“Well . . . How is your show?”

“I thought you didn’t watch it.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you want to talk about it?”
His twitching lips turned into a small, challenging smile.

“I don’t watch it
, but I know
of
it.” I cleared my throat for a third time. “It’s hard not to know of it, what with all the stripping of celebrities and objectifying of women.”

His grin grew rueful
. “So, you haven’t watched, but you’re ready to judge it?” He nodded. “That makes sense.”

“
Aren’t you even a little ashamed?”

“There is nothing wrong with
the show.” His hand slid from my side to the center of my back as though to hold me in place.

“You don’t think there is anything wrong with objectifying women?”

“I don’t objectify women.”

“Your show does.”

“I disagree,” he said.

“So
—bikini models wrestling each other in tubs of Jell-O . . .?” I lifted my eyebrows, waited for him to concede. “What is the definition of female objectification then?”

“There is nothing wrong with men looking at or appreciating a beautiful woman.”
His eyes swept over me. I ignored the implication and successfully suppressed the rising heat that accompanied it.

“There is
. There is when being looked at is a woman’s sole purpose.”

“You mean like art?”

I scoff-snorted. “You’re comparing your show to art?”

“Yes
 . . . and no. The women on my show are definitely comparable to art. I admit there is a wrong way and a right way to do things. I feel like my show does things the right way.”

“It must be hard for you to work in an industry where there is so much confusion about what is
porn
and what is art.” I smiled sweetly at him.

“Yes, wel
l—” An edge was discernible in his voice which told me he was not pleased with my comparison, “—it must be hard for you to work in an industry when the fundamentals are based on Nazi research, leaches, and bleeding people.”

I stiffened and stumbled
, but he countered my misstep flawlessly and held me tighter. His eyes glowed.

It felt just like old times. We were teenagers again engaging in a game of spitefulness. I hated it.

“You’re right.” I deadpanned, “It really is a worthless, ignoble profession.”

“No.” His hand resettled on my back
, and he lifted his chin; his soulful eyes focused on me, intent and earnest. “It’s a very noble profession. It suits you well.”

My blush of
embarrassment was annoying and immediate. I couldn’t respond to his unexpected compliment with a cutting remark so I just stared at him. We traded stares again for several long moments. I felt hot—once again—and an irrepressible urge to say something. It needed to be nice, damn it.

I didn’t like that
he had the last word and it was a nice last word and he was—therefore—kinder, more forgiving, and more mature than I was. I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculous thought, but was powerless against it.

I wanted to be the nice one.

I wanted to show him that I was just as ambivalent to him and our past together as he seemed to be. I was a grown up. I was mature. I had on my big girl fancy panties. I could be the better person, even if it killed me.

I
bit my tongue to stall my words because I wasn’t sure what they would be. I only knew they would be honest and nice and, honestly, that combination scared me. I also knew whatever came out would be an attempt at nice-one-upmanship which meant I would likely compliment—

“You are very funny.”

Nico frowned, flinched slightly. His hand loosened on my back. “I wasn’t being funny, I was being serious.”

I nodded.
“Oh, I know. I believe you—what you said. It was very nice. Thank you.” I cleared my throat for the eight thousandth time. I really was going to have to get something to drink, like maybe vodka. “And I meant what I said. You are very funny. You’re a funny . . . person.”

His eyes narrowed, he studied me through half
-lidded dark lashes. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“No, really
. I may not watch your show, but—” I took a deep breath. I was going to admit to something I had no intention of admitting to anyone. Ever. “—but I may have seen or caught part of—well, it was on while I was walking by—your stand-up special . . . thing . . .” Finally I huffed and just owned it. “I saw your New York to LA stand-up special on HBO last year. It was funny. I laughed.”

The truth was I ordered HBO for the month when I learn
ed he was going to have a stand-up special. I couldn’t wait for it to come out on DVD or Bluray; but I would
never
tell him that. I was officially ridiculous.

His stare
and expression betrayed befuddled amusement as I struggled to speak; then, finally, comprehension and something like smug satisfaction. It was in his smile, the way he stood a little taller, the twinkle in his eye.

“What was your favorite bit?”

“The one about universally funny concepts.”

He waited then prompted, “Specifically?”

My jaw flexed. “Specifically about interpretive dance and synchronized swimming, about how synchronized swimming is funny if attempted by anyone but a professional and then you paired it with interpretive dance. I like how you . . . you’re just a very physical comedian and it was funny.” I rolled my eyes again. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late. Dr. Finney thinks I’m funny.”

I warred bravely against my own grin. “I saw it in the middle of the night after a long shift.”

Actually and more precisely,
I used to watch it all the time in the middle of the night after my long shifts.

“
But, when I remember this conversation later I’ll tell myself that you watch it every night before you go to bed.” His voice was both teasing and intimate.

“Whatever.” I shook my head and turned my face away
; but I saw nothing because he was everywhere I looked. “Believe what you want.”

Leisurely, Nico
brushed his soft beard against my cheek then dipped his mouth to my ear, nuzzled the space beneath it, his hot breath on my neck as he whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with having fun.”

His movements and words caused an electrical shock of awareness to course from the tip of my head to the center of my belly.

I jerked away, glared at him; “I know that.”

“Do you?”
He smirked, his fingers flexing on my back, held me tighter. “When is the last time you had fun?”

“Last Tuesday.”

“Oh yeah? What did you do?”

“I went to my
 . . . knitting . . . group.” I realized, just as the words left my mouth, how lame and sedate that sounded. He probably pictured me sitting in a reindeer sweater, drinking tepid peach-and-mango tea while exchanging cocktail recipes.

D
oh!

Non-knitters just didn’t understand the dynami
cs of a knitting group. It wasn’t just a good time or a fun time; it was the best time.

“
Ooooh
, okay. I didn’t realize that you are part of a knitting circle. I stand corrected.” His smirk intensified, it was an intensa-smirk, and his eyes glowed with plain enjoyment at my expense. “You have fun scheduled for every Tuesday night.”

“
It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me about it.”

We engaged in a staring contest for several stanzas of the song. A whisper of a smile on his features, a frustrated glower on mine.

I
felt the need to run, to escape.

My hands moved from his neck to his chest and
pushed against him. Before I could move even an inch he covered one of my hands and pressed it to his heart. His other hand, on my back, held me in place.

“
The song is almost over.” His expression turned serious, his eyes beseeching, his body tense. “Stay with me.”

Stay with me.

Nico’s words set off a gathering thickness in my throat; I could only press my mouth into a line and nod.

It was what I said to him the first night, the first time he climbed in my window, the first
time he held me while I slept and then every night after until I turned him away.

I wondered if he remembered. I wondered if that was why he said it. It didn’t matter, not really. The song would be over
, and he would walk away. Sandra and I would go back to the farm house, and I would try to forget this dance ever happened.

He pulled me closer
, held me tighter, his chin against my temple, his hand gripped mine over his heart, his other hand and arm completely wrapped around my middle. He was holding me as we danced.

Once habitual feelings of familiarity, sentiments of comfort, safety, and serenity were now laced with confusion, uncertainty, and anticipation. Most troubling was how good he felt, how my body curved and bent and molded to his without my consent. These sensations reminded me of the last time we’d held each other.

These feelings, and the fact that he would never return the sentiments, were why I’d left him.

Ending
notes of the song filtered through the speakers, but I heard nothing. Surrounded by Nico quicksand, I sunk deeper with every beat of his heart; it echoed in my ribs. I blinked against a perplexing stinging within my eyes.

Then, Beyonce sang
, “I’m feelin’
seeeeexy
,” and I was promptly yanked out of my vortex of warm and fuzzy Nico quicksand. 

There were a
number of contributing factors to my rude awakening, and they occurred all at once:

The tempo of the music escalated from slowmo
“True” to the substantively more upbeat Beyonce’s “Naughty Girl.”

Three women appeared out of nowhere
—or rather, what felt like nowhere in that moment—and surrounded us.

Two of the women grabbed Nico’s
arms.

One of the women said very
loudly and very close to my ear, “Come on, Nico—we want to dance!”

Nico
, looking a bit stunned, turned toward the very loud woman, and I was forced to step back; the group of three was hip gyrating and arm waving and hair flinging. I lifted my own arms to protect against incidental bodily injury and glanced around me, somewhat surprised that Nico and I were in a room full of people—because sometime during the last several minutes I apparently forgot that he and I were not alone.

I searched the perimeter of the dance floor looking for Sandra. My eyes met with a tall, brown
-haired man that I didn’t recognize; he was watching me openly. Disconcerted, I glanced to his left and I met the gaze of medium-sized woman—also watching me. It was at that point I realized everyone in the room who was not currently dancing—and even some who were—was blatantly watching me. It didn’t seem to occur to them that openly watching a person was strange.

Someone pinched my elbow
, and I turned to find Sandra at my side. She was shaking her booty. Next to her was a man I almost recognized, and he was also booty shaking. She flung a toothy smile at my frowning face and leaned into my ear.