Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (15 page)

We spent an inordinate amount of time together these days. The city’s music subculture kept us hopping from venue to venue, and though I didn’t share her investment in the scene, I couldn’t help but get Tiel’s enthusiasm all over me like a bad case of chicken pox.

When we weren’t chasing down shows, we were watching movies at her apartment. There was no lamer approach to the weekend, but I was fucking addicted to our movie nights. The films themselves had nothing to do with my obsession; they were the gateway drug.

It started out with us falling asleep on her sofa over Labor Day weekend, but as the weeks and months passed, movies became the front for sneaky snuggling.

We’d start out on opposite ends of the sectional, the picture of platonic. Gradually we moved toward each other, and the reasons were seemingly legitimate: ottoman placement, popcorn distribution, air conditioner proximity when it was hot, quilt sharing now that it was cold, cowering during scary moments. It always transitioned to us lying together, and that was where the boundaries evaporated.

I mean, where the fuck was I supposed to put my hands when she was curled up next to me? Once my arm was around her shoulder, it was all too easy for it to slide down and rest on her hip.

God, those hips were sinful. The flare from her waist to hip was a perfect hourglass, and whenever my hand rested in that spot, I had to talk myself out of pulling back her clothes and running my teeth along her skin. It was bad enough that I found myself in that position on a weekly basis, but her fucking wiggling was endless. It was like receiving a goddamn lap dance without all the glitter and skank.

From there, it was a quick journey to her belly, and that was my favorite spot.

It sounded a little fetishy even to me, but I adored splaying my fingers out over her tummy. I’d always preferred waifish women, but I revered Tiel’s curves. Maybe it was her boundless confidence or complete comfort with her body. I wouldn’t want her any other way.

And I loved touching her. If it were socially acceptable to fuse my hands to her body at all hours of the day, I’d do it and I wouldn’t apologize for a damn minute. She was soft and beautiful, and I felt an unusually spectacular comfort when I was pressed against her. I could be content with a layer of clothing between us but it came with a dose of agony. I wanted to feel her skin under mine, and that was the greatest shock to my system of all.

The kissing was another issue. Since the elevator incident, I shared more kisses with Tiel than I had with all previous women combined. To her, the opportunities were limitless, and she seized plenty of them. It was always playful and sweet, and if she ever noticed the aroused state she left me in, she didn’t mention it.

And we were still friends.

Friends who kissed, friends who slept together on sofas, friends who woke up tangled in each other as if it were their last embrace.

Friends. Profusely affectionate friends.

She was seated at a small table in an alcove framed with an angled dormer window. She could have looked like a damn fool with her eyes closed and head rocking with the melody, but that was what made Tiel irresistible. She was real, and real in a way I didn’t think was possible.

There was no space in her life for self-consciousness, and she didn’t see any reason to modify herself. She didn’t say the right things and she didn’t manage her reactions to suit anyone. She wore whatever the hell she wanted to wear—usually the wildest colors in the crayon box and many more necklaces, bracelets, and anklets than any one person should wear at a given time—and she laughed off my critique of her attire.

My approval was irrelevant to her, and that was fucking amazing.

I slipped into the seat across from her and tapped my fingers against the back of her hand. Her eyes opened, hazy and slow, the way she would first thing in the morning. To be clear, she was a bear first thing in the morning, but she was also terribly cute.

“You made it,” she said, her face breaking into a bright smile. “I was getting worried.”

“You are exceptionally devoted to the music scene,” I said, casting a glance around the space. “Now, I really need you to blow me for this one, Sunshine. I can’t remember the last time I went to Allston by choice.”

“Wouldn’t you just love that,” she said.

“In fact, I would. I’ve been in the market for a decent blowjob all week.”

In truth, I’d skipped out on my usual scene for weeks. Although no one inquired about the change in my routines, I was armed with some defensible arguments.

I was exhausted—Tiel
had
been running my ass all over town, and she didn’t tolerate anything less than total participation when live music was involved.

I was getting in control of my health—hence the soup.

I was behind on my woodworking projects—Riley was sitting on milk crates and Tiel’s coffee table was a shit show.

The reality was less clear to me. I didn’t want to go out alone anymore. I’d grown accustomed to her quirky chatter and complete inability to filter herself when flustered. I didn’t know how to entertain myself if I wasn’t making gratuitous comments about her breasts or listening to her babble.

On the rare nights that I did venture beyond the firehouse, I couldn’t force myself to tolerate the club crowd unless I was with Riley. Even then, I stayed firmly in wingman territory. I couldn’t replicate her frisky take on the world with any of the vapid, thigh-gapped party princesses, and no one could hold my attention quite like Tiel.

“That should be easy,” she said. “Considering your asking price is so low.”

Tiel frequently editorialized on the topic of my sex life. I let most of her commentary slide without discussion as I wasn’t about to defend, rationalize, or apologize, but I picked up a sore note in her voice tonight.

I massaged her wrist, knowing she spent most of her day in the studio and that often left everything from neck to finger aching. “Your tits are a work of art. Da Vinci himself couldn’t have sculpted a better pair.”

Tiel sent me a skeptical glare while the waiter took my order. When he was out of earshot, she said, “Does that shit really work for you? Do real women actually beg for the privilege of sucking your dick as a result of those comments?”

I leaned forward, my elbows propped on the table while I rubbed my eyes. I loved debating with her, but I couldn’t do it tonight. I was tired and I hadn’t eaten more than some walnuts since morning, and as much as I craved time with Tiel, I didn’t want to be listening to sad piano music. I wanted to be in her little apartment with my head in her lap while she talked over entire movies and I wanted to feel her, skin-to-skin, and know her in every way I could.

“I really don’t want to go there with you tonight. Is there a specific question you’re asking, or are you just busting my balls right now?”

She didn’t say anything while the waiter returned with our drinks. I studied the space again, recognizing that this wasn’t Tiel’s usual scene. She liked fast-paced shows that kept her bouncing with the music, and a vibrant, hip crowd that embraced every subculture under the sun. This seemed too sedentary and sleepy for her.

“You know I got married young,” she eventually said. “And that it didn’t work out. I was nineteen, and I never stopped to realize that my life was going to change. I mean, you don’t get married and live in separate dorm rooms.” She laughed, her fingers running through her dark hair. “There was a lot to figure out. Before I knew it, we were ending things.”

I didn’t know what to say. I watched her eyes, those expressive hazel eyes, and waited for more.

“I had to grow up really quickly,” she said. “Too fast. And not just because I got married. Sometimes, I look back and I think, wow. I never had a chance to be a kid.”

This was how Tiel got her thoughts out: she started at one point, veered off in a different direction, doubled back, traveled in another direction, and reached the end point in a circuitous, disorganized way, but it made sense in the end. My brain preferred a more linear approach, but there was something captivating about her thought process. Something about getting lost with her.

“I understand,” I said. “I’ve never been divorced, but I know all about growing up too soon.”

“I know. I think I can see it in you,” she said. “Isn’t that why you’re willing to accept quick, emotionless sex from women who expect nothing from you? Isn’t it your way of repossessing some youthful irresponsibility?”

I should have known she wasn’t following the path I expected, but nothing could have prepared me for a discussion of her divorce to end with my sluttiness. I’d never thought of it that way, and I wasn’t especially comfortable with that extrapolation. At the same time, I didn’t see a reason to unpack her assumptions.

“And you’re suggesting there’s an issue with that?”

“Let me ask you something.” She scooted her chair closer and folded her arms on the table. “Think about the last time you hooked up.”

I couldn’t remember the last time. I knew it was before meeting Tiel, but I couldn’t surface any memory of the location, the person, or the act. A cute strawberry blonde came to mind, but she was earlier in the summer and she only stuck out because I
never
went for redheads.

I knew I sampled an artisanal gin that night, and it was exceedingly herbaceous for my preferences. I had a lengthy conversation with the bartender about that bottle of gin, but I couldn’t recall anything about the woman who got on her knees for me.

“Shit,” I murmured.

Tiel lifted her glass and rolled the base on her coaster, leaving a series of overlapping circles from the condensation. She chewed her lip for a moment, and frowned at her drink before meeting my eyes. “I think I have you figured out,” she said.

I made a show of looking at my watch. “And it’s only been what? Eight? Nine weeks since you forced me into that elevator? Certainly there’s a prize for nailing me down inside two months.”

She smirked, and I could tell I was getting her riled up. “I bet your standard operating procedure is incredible.”

“You’re damn right it is,” I muttered.

“Of course,” she laughed. “You have all the right moves and flawless execution. I’m sure you can accomplish more in ten minutes, in a random closet no less, than most men aspire to on their best nights.”

I gestured over my shoulder, motioning toward the restrooms. “Would you like me to demonstrate? You pick the closet.”

“Your skills are legend, Samuel,” she said. “But that’s the issue. Sex isn’t about skill. It’s passion, and you can’t fake that.” She brushed her hair away from her face, shrugging. “I know some musicians who can shred every single piece of music put in front of them, but they have no passion for the sound and you can hear it. It’s technically perfect, but it’s so fucking soulless that you never want to listen to that piece ever again.”

This was her way. She’d ask one seemingly simple question, pull one thread, and take me apart. The topics varied, but every time it came back to peeling away the layers of self-preservation I’d painted on over the years. She knew how to strip me down and see me without any of that protective veneer, and in a sense, it reminded me of Angus. She heard all the outlandish thoughts rambling around my head, but instead of decimating me the way he did, she took those loose, frayed threads and pulled me back together.

“Most people think passion lives in some thundering monster, a primordial entity that calls all the shots from deep inside your brain, but it’s not,” she said, growing animated. “It’s details. It’s the way itsy bitsy sounds bend around each other and create magic. It’s pressing your mouth to someone’s neck because you can’t imagine living another minute without feeling her skin on your lips. Fingertips digging into hips until they bruised. Reaching for someone in the night. Knowing her taste in your soul but never feeling fulfilled. Awakening all the beasts you’ve kept hidden inside, and letting them grow and breathe because she wants to know them. That’s passion.”

I stared at her, convinced I was observing something filthy and exquisite, and I couldn’t find a single thing to say.

I was suddenly uncomfortable, too warm and too confined in this small space. I tugged my sleeves down, then ditched the cufflinks and rolled my shirt to my elbows. It wasn’t enough, and though it was a delicate Italian silk that didn’t take well to folding, I unknotted my tie and shoved it in my pocket. None of it cooled the obnoxious tension clawing at me.

At first, I couldn’t comprehend my visceral reaction to her comments. Tiel and I talked about sex all the time. It was mostly my conjecture about her mouth relative to my dick, and it was all good fun.

“But you can’t really get any of that in a hook-up, can you? Sure, itches scratched, biological urges met, whatever.” She threw her hands up as if regular, hearty orgasms weren’t elemental to the sanity of men everywhere. “But you never learn what that person likes and craves. You don’t even know what
you
crave, and it doesn’t matter how well you perform when there’s no soul. No passion.”

She held out her hands, the evidence presented.

There were no quick comebacks in my arsenal, and honestly, my dick was too busy getting strangled by my trousers to form a rational response.

“Why are we talking about me? I’m great. Let’s talk about you, Tiel. When was the last time
you
had sex?”

She raised her glass halfway to her mouth then stopped, and set it on the coaster. “It was July.”

“Was it any good?”

Our eyes locked, and I noticed a blush creeping across her cheeks as we continued staring at each other. “It was fine.”

“‘Fine’ seems like an awfully low bar,” I said. “You’re comfortable with that?”

She glanced out the window, her gaze distant while her fingers tapped the tabletop with the piano’s rhythm. “Actually, it
was
good. We weren’t . . . hmm.” She balanced her chin on her fist and paused. “We just weren’t the right fit.”

I shifted in my seat, and the movement jostled the table and sent liquid sloshing out of my glass. I hadn’t touched my drink, and now it was dripping off the table’s ledge and staining the knee of my trousers. I brushed it away and shook off my hands, more frazzled than I was before, and gulped down my gin and tonic.