Let's Be Frank (44 page)

She throws her hands up. “A) I never told her I forgot anything, because I
didn’t
forget; and B) Why the hell would I ever do something like that? To purposely make a mess for myself and eventually make myself look like the worst PR rep of all time?” Now she quiets and turns sideways, mumbling into her fist, “She asked me to ask you. Period. And if I’d known it had anything to do with money… forget it. I would have never approached you.” Her hand falls from her mouth, but her voice remains subdued. “I realized at your place, when you reacted the way you did, that my reputation wasn’t worth it, either. I felt horrible for putting you in the position of having to say no.”

I stare at her, struggling to make the connections that are right there but evading my temporarily (I hope) lower-functioning brain. Fighting through another furious blush, I mutter, “I see. So… I haven’t learned a damn thing when it comes to Frankie, have I?” I pivot, placing us essentially back-to-back. Then I move to the foot of the bed, where I sit dejectedly, my hands resting limply in my lap.

I mean, could I
be
any stupider? Is “stupider” even a word? I’m so stupid, I don’t know. Why on Earth would I
ever
believe a single thing that comes out of Frankie’s mouth, after everything she’s put me through? Why? Am I destined to keep making the same mistake over and over with her, just in ways that are different enough to make me believe I’m actually learning from those mistakes?

Oblivious to my internal berating and obviously coming to grips, herself, with the lies Frankie told me about her, Betty cries, her voice coming closer to my shoulder, “I’m so confused!”

I close my eyes when she rests her hand on the back of my neck. As unemotionally as possible, I explain, “She said you purposely kept the arrangements—then hid behind forgetting—in the hopes that I’d feel obligated to do this. She said you had…
have
… feelings for me. Now, I know she was merely telling me what I needed to hear, what I
wanted
to hear, in order to agree to do what she wanted me to do all along. I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

It’s subtle at first, so soft I think I may be imagining the pressure against the top of my head. But then I feel her warm breath filtering through my hair to my scalp, and I know the kiss is real. Like a kiss you’d give to an upset child, granted, but still… a kiss. She turns her face sideways, resting her cheek against my skull.

“You’re not an idiot,” she repeats in a hypnotic murmur.

Instinctively, I reach over my shoulder and cup her neck against my palm, an acknowledgment of her reassurance, a thank you for her kind words.

Cooler air hits my back, and my hand falls away from her neck as she withdraws. I open my eyes, but I continue to stare at the outdated brass drawer pulls on the dresser, not sure what to say or do next. As I’m about to tell her I’d understand if she wanted to pack up and leave tonight, that I’ll handle the meet-n-greet alone tomorrow and finish what we came here to do, I feel the mattress dip behind me, and her body heat returns.

She curls against my back. Her lips brush against my cheek.

Not sure how to interpret what she’s doing (is this a pity kiss, another “It’s-okay-you-were-bamboozled-again” consolation kiss, a “Don’t-be-sad” kiss?), I tense and hold my breath.

She presses her lips more firmly on my face. Her soft mouth contrasts with my rough stubble, whispering as it travels from my jaw to my neck. Since I’m still holding my breath, a lack of oxygen eventually makes my head pound enough that my brain sends the message to my respiratory system to start breathing again. I try not to take huge gulps of air, try not to do anything that would spoil the moment.

Meanwhile, I struggle to determine if she’s been drinking. She doesn’t seem drunk, and I haven’t seen her drinking, but I’ve been asleep for much of the evening. I turn my head slightly and surreptitiously sniff, trying to detect alcohol on her breath. I smell nothing but that intoxicating, clean scent that I would know anywhere, even if she were standing among a hundred other sweet-smelling women, and I were blindfolded. Hmm… That visual’s actually kind of doing it for me.
Oh, yeah…

But wait! If this is another drink- or pity-fueled grope, I don’t want anything to do with it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Then it strikes me that I haven’t seen Betty drink in months, not even at my brother’s wedding. The last time I witnessed her imbibe alcohol of any kind was—I frantically search my memory—during that horrendous double-date at the French restaurant.

And anyway… let’s be frank—who cares? I don’t, at this point. I know what’s motivating
me
, and it’s not drugs or alcohol or pity or even lust (purely). I love her. I’ve loved her for a long time. And I’m sick of denying it.

I turn my head even more toward her lips, conveying my active participation in what she’s started. She leans over my shoulder, takes my face between her hands, and presses her mouth to mine. I twist at the waist to make the position less awkward, and I brace my weight on my hand, which I place on the mattress behind me. She swings her leg around me and straddles my right thigh. For a second, I think I may pass out.

This kiss is lighter and less frantic than the drunken one she gave me on her doorstep all those months ago, but it somehow conveys more passion, more feeling. It definitely feels more sincere, less silly. There’s nothing silly about this kiss… or my reaction to it.

I push my mouth harder against hers and tease my tongue against her teeth, then farther inside the silky folds of her lips. When she mimics my behavior, I move my free hand to the base of her skull, tangling my fingers in her soft, wavy hair as I hold her head firmly in place so I can continue devouring her mouth.

After several minutes, I pull my face away from hers but don’t move any other part of my body (voluntarily, that is). Her hands fall to my shoulders.

“Wait,” I pant.

What?! Noooooooooooo!
something other than my brain wails.

Parts of her body may be screaming the same thing at me, based on the rapid rise and fall of her chest, so I explain to all the screaming body parts in the room, “Hang on a minute. I mean… What’s happening?”

“Has it been
that
long, Nathaniel?”

The arched eyebrow I love so much is almost my undoing. But I have to be strong. I have to be sure of one more thing. I let go of her head and laugh nervously. “Nearly. But that’s not what I meant. I know about
that
part, but… You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“No, I mean… You’re not obligated to… deliver… on her lies.” The possibility of her feeling that way, of her going that far to do Frankie’s bidding, nauseates me.

She returns her hands to my face, so I can’t look away, even if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I could stare into her eyes all night. I could stare into her eyes for the rest of my life. As a matter of fact, her eyes could inspire a guy to go into optometry, easily one of the most boring specialties.

As I’m contemplating a career change, she says softly, tracing her thumbs along my cheekbones, “As usual, she knew exactly how much truth to include in her story to make it ring true. But this has nothing to do with her. And it definitely has nothing to do with obligation.”

“I don’t want you to think—”

“I’m not thinking, for once. Please, reward me.”

She learns forward abruptly, shifting me off-balance so I fall onto my back on the bed—directly onto the ice pack I tossed aside earlier. I hiss and arch my spine. She reaches under me and shoves the ice-filled bag away, sending it sailing off the side of the bed like an air hockey puck. I recline once more against the still-cool spot on the sheet, pulling her down with me. Our chests collide, expelling the air in our lungs with brief grunts.

I replenish my oxygen supply before diving once again into a pool of hormones and pheromones, which are now effectively drowning any of that remaining pesky fear. Fear is for wimps. And smart people. I refuse to be the former anymore, and I’ve never been the latter.

That means the only remaining obstacle is clothing. Rolling her onto her back, I dispense with hers like she’s a coding ER patient. Okay, not the most romantic comparison, but it’s the first thing that pops to mind as I quickly unbutton her shirt. My hands play the part of the crash cart paddles on her torso, but there’s no “clearing.” On the contrary, our mouths crush together for another thorough tonsil check. She blindly pushes down on my pants, only pausing when my elastic waistband hangs up on the most currently intractable of my body parts.

Lips still locked, we take over some of our own disrobing, me de-pantsing, her shrugging off her shirt and shucking her bra. My underwear’s still hanging from one ankle when I consider my job done well enough for now and focus on the zipper and button of her shorts. She lifts her hips just enough to make easy work of removing her outer- and underwear in one smooth motion. Skin slaps skin when my t-shirt finally gets the hint and leaves the party, my briefs following closely behind with a final shake of my leg.

Betty rests her right knee against my ribs and breathes into my mouth, “Now. Please.”

Condom!
screams the nurse who’s apparently
never
off-duty in my brain.

I sigh but mutter the word in a tortured rasp against Betty’s lips. The only movement from either of us for several seconds comes from our heaving chests while we contemplate our frustrating dilemma.

Finally, she pulls her head back and says, “Tell me it doesn’t matter,” her eyes searching mine and packing volumes into her plea.

“It does, though,” I manage to answer. “It matters a lot. You matter.” I tilt my head and kiss her trembling lips.

Her closing eyes push tears down both sides of her face.

“Don’t cry,” I whisper. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m so happy,” she whispers back, her eyes opening and proving with their sparkle that she’s telling the truth. “Are you happy?”

“Yes. Very.”

She cups my butt in both hands. “Then just love me.”

“Oh, God… I do.” I’ve barely spoken the last word, giving neither of us time for reconsideration, before I plunge myself deep inside of her, and it’s as if a row of laboratory pipettes has sucked every remaining coherent, responsible thought from my mind.

The next few minutes (okay, probably more like seconds, unfortunately) are frantic, frenetic, and frenzied, but brain function eventually returns on a basic level, and I realize something wonderful, yet terrible, is about to happen.

“Oh, gosh,” I whisper, the tell-tale tingling in my extremities a surefire warning of the end. I freeze and think about football.

“What’s wrong?”

To my utter horror, I slur, “Football.”

“Football?”

Burying my face in her neck, I take a deep breath and laugh at myself, even though I want to cry. “Never mind.” I risk my immediate release by resuming some movement, rising on one elbow, trailing kisses down her shoulder, anything to get past this moment. But that damn nurse—I’m starting to hate him—compels me to stop and blurt after another few seconds, “I’m about to… you know… already.” I barely prevent the highly unsexy declaration from escaping in a highly unsexy whine. My only consolation is that I didn’t use medical jargon to let her know. (“Ejaculate” is such an ugly word.)

She halts all hip movement, kisses my temple, and says, “I’ll be right there with you.”

I can feel my pounding heartbeat everywhere, including in the bump on my forehead. “Really? Already?”

She wraps her hand around the back of my neck. “Already? I’ve been waiting for this for months,” she murmurs next to my ear. As if to prove it, after the next couple of thrusts, she contracts around me, and her head falls back, exposing her neck to my lips. Her vocal chords vibrate under my mouth as she moans while we buck against each other, and I attempt to channel all the feelings I have for her through such an admittedly coarse, primal activity.

“Ohhhh!” I groan, as the last of my control finally falls away. For an immeasurable amount of time, I exist on a plane not governed by anything but pure biology in its most glorious form. Every nerve ending is humming; every hair follicle is standing at attention; every blood vessel is pumping and whooshing. I hope it’s the same for her. I think it is, based on her reaction.

“Kiss me,” she practically begs, bringing me back to a time and place connected to the physical world. I do as she says, and my heavy limbs reawaken. I run my hands up and down her body, smiling at her squirms and sighs of delight.

Out of breath, I’m forced to break off the kiss, so I don’t do something humiliating, like stroke out.

She tightens her embrace around my back. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not,” I reassure her, shifting subtly on top of her. “I’m just… breathing.”

With a grin, she declares, “Overrated.”

“Actually, not. And it would be a shame to die right now.”

“I’d be okay with it.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I touch my forehead to hers, then jerk back when another piece of my reality transmits a painful reminder. I roll away from the sensation, landing on my back with an “Oomph.”