The Lessons
Authors: Elizabeth Brown
The Lessons
Elizabeth Brown
The Lessons
Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Brown
All Rights Reserved.
Edited by Chelsea Kuhel (www.madisonseidler.com)
Warning: The following story contains mature humor, a lot of cursing, and of course, sexual situations (yay!). It is intended for adult readers who enjoy that kind of thing.
Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Wicked By Design
Sexual Surrogate
Definition: A sexual surrogate or surrogate partner is a part of what is usually a three-prong team consisting of the client(s), supervising therapist, and surrogate. Therapy can be attended individually or as part of a couple. The surrogate engages in education and often intimate physical contact and/or sexual activity in order to achieve a therapeutic goal.
-Wikipedia
A little over eight years ago…
Natalie
I lowered my voice and stared at my boyfriend. “I don’t understand. What do you mean,
gay
?”
Josh leaned back against the red vinyl seat and ran his hands through his hair as I scanned the restaurant. Although we were seated in a private booth, we were still suddenly much too close to the other diners.
“Natalie, please—”
I craned my neck to find the waiter, but instead grabbed the busboy who was passing by. “Could we get two shots of Jameson please?” I asked tersely. The busboy considered my dining companion and then me. “Now?” I repeated. He nodded and disappeared.
Josh gently shook his head at me. “Whiskey ain’t going to change it, babe.”
I stared up at the ceiling, a confusing mess of frustration. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. This was our anniversary. First of two I’d planned. Then we’d graduate, and he’d get a job with a firm in Connecticut and—
I was blindsided by this strange tug of emotion coming from inside me. As my stomach churned I tried to put a name to it. It wasn’t sadness, but not quite anger either.
The busboy arrived with the shots and placed them in front of us. I picked mine up, and raised an eyebrow at my dining companion.
“Pass.”
I downed my shot and then picked up his. “Mind?”
“Please.”
I threw my head back and felt a second burn move past my throat and warm my belly. I could not believe this was happening. I mean, for anyone else: gay, straight, whatever, I didn’t care. But
why
did it have to be my boyfriend?
I chuckled, now plied with alcohol. “Am I that un-fuckable?” To think I’d thought our lack of sex was because he was being a gentleman. Hah. Quite the virgin mistake.
He sighed, resigned. “LeeLee, don’t even go there. This isn’t about you, it’s—”
I snorted and then leaned in and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Are you serious? You are not seriously giving me the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”
“Babe—”
“How long?”
Josh smirked. “Eight inches; seven if it’s cold outside.”
I frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“So?”
He ran his hands over his face before answering, giving me a moment to survey this man, who I guess now was officially my ex-boyfriend. He was handsome, that was for sure. When he’d asked me out, I hadn’t been able to believe my luck. I’m not exactly someone who sticks out in the crowd, but Josh was tall, tan, and athletic. Add the fact that he was pre-law and all-American during last rugby season—well, that meant I was the envy of most girls on campus.
Guess I was the envy of some of the guys now, too.
“I don’t know. I mean, I guess I’ve always kind of known,” he said, finally.
“So…” I said, trying to piece together my memories of the past year, “So you
kind of knew
but dated me anyway?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry Nat, I really am. You’re the first one I’ve told. Please don’t hate me.”
I sighed. Of course I didn’t hate him. Josh and I…we, well, he—he was my only friend. The one person I’d connected with during my three years at Columbia. He’d also been the one who helped me through my mom’s cancer scare last year, and the one who hadn’t let me give up on my Greek literature class. I stared over at my dining companion and suddenly I saw him for who he really was: my best friend.
And my best friend looked scared.
I offered a small smile and held out my hand. “Don’t worry Joshie, you aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”
Eight years later…
Natalie
“Better blow out the candles. That ice cream is gonna melt.”
I glanced over at Josh. We were seated near the front window at our favorite Chinese restaurant on the Lower East Side and some fried ice cream had
miraculously
appeared at the end of the meal. And I had a sneaking suspicion my best friend had something to do with it.
I blew out the candles and turned to him. “Three candles?”
“They couldn’t fit all thirty on a single scoop,” he smirked.
I sighed. Thirty. Nothing like a milestone birthday to make you take stock of things. And me? This birthday made me realize how ashamed I was and how far my life had swung off course. The old Natalie Reese had goals and dreams and a clear plan that mapped out my future. That is, until life reared its ugly head. Nope, now all of a sudden, I was thirty. I couldn’t make any more excuses. It was time to get off my ass and get my life back on track.
Later that night, at home, I pulled out my journal. On the last page was a copy of The Plan.
Natalie Reese
Annual Life Goals Plan
21 Boyfriend #1, Lose Virginity
22 Graduate from college; Secure paying job
24. Break up with Boyfriend #1, Enjoy 20-something life
25. Promotion, Boyfriend #2
26. Engagement
27. Wedding
28. Promotion
29. Child #1
I got out a big red pen. It was time to make some edits.
Three months later…
Natalie
New city. New job.
Fresh start.
It had only been two days since I’d moved from New York to San Francisco, but in that short time, already I’d managed to power my way through the majority of my long post-move to-do list.
Cable and wi-fi installation
Washer/dryer delivery
Change of address filed with the post office
In case you can’t tell, I’m a list maker, and for too long, I’d been making lists for others. This move was designed to change that.
Up next, library card. I straightened my glasses and smoothed my hair as I marched up the steps and into the entryway of the San Francisco Public Library. As I passed over the marble floors, I craned my neck to take in the lobby. This library was
spectacular
. The circular atrium stretched at least seven stories high, and was flanked on all sides by floor upon floor of books. Glorious books. And that smell. Oh God, that smell.
#heaven
Eventually, after a sufficient amount of gawking, I gathered my wits about me and made my way to the service counter where I laid my ID and a copy of my apartment’s rental agreement down on the counter.
“I’d like to sign up for a library card, please.”
A thin, young hipster regarded me from behind his artsy horn rimmed glasses.
“You’ll need to fill out this application,” he said blankly, without blinking. He was clearly not as excited as I was, to say the least.
I cracked a stupid joke to lighten the mood but was only met with an annoyed look. Undeterred, I stepped to the side to complete the application, and in less than five minutes, I was a card carrying member of SFPL. Besides my rental agreement, it was the only evidence I had that I did, in fact, belong in this city.
Most of my worldly possessions, including all my books, were still stuck in a shipping container somewhere in the Midwest, so I headed to the stacks to find something to read. I located the mystery section and spent a good amount of time contentedly perusing the shelves, slowly collecting a formidable stack in my arms. It was probably more than I’d be able to read before the due date, but whatever— I didn’t know anyone in this city, so I had some evenings to kill. I bent down to review the lowest shelf; one of my favorite authors had a new book out, and I was hoping to find a copy.
“Excuse me, Miss? Could you tell me where I’d find
Attic Ruins
by Ethan Calloway?” a male voice beckoned.
I ignored it, figuring the question wasn’t directed at me. It persisted.
“Miss?”
I closed my eyes.
Seriously?
I thought as I stood up slowly. I glanced down at my dark jeans and cardigan. I thought my outfit was cute, however this man apparently thought I looked like a librarian. I sighed inwardly, resolving to go shopping, as I readjusted my glasses and turned around.
“Look, I’m sorry, but—”
Holy Moses.
In one instant my eyes collided with deep blue pools and I
Dropped.
All.
My.
Books.
“Shit—fuck,” I muttered, embarrassed, as I bent down to gather the pile.
He kneeled, beating me to the ground. “Here, let me get that.” He said as he gathered the titles. “So, do they normally let you handle the books around here, or is this a first-time kind of thing?” He eyed me, bemused. I went mute as I took him in. He was attractive, really ridiculously attractive—all golden skin and silky dark hair that just grazed his collar. Handsome in a way that just oozed masculinity and sex. I mean, not that I’d know.
He stacked my bundle of books in one hand and pulled me to my feet with his other. His grip was strong, his hand dwarfing mine.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I had a question.”
A question? I swallowed. Whatever he wanted to know, I was pretty sure my answer would be yes. His eyes flicked down to my chest for an instant, before returning to meet mine. My breath hitched, and I was acutely aware of my sweater and how it tugged against the curves of my body.
“Do you have the newest Calloway novel?”
Crap, he was still thinking I worked here…that I’m a librarian. For a brief moment I actually even considered lying, just so I had an excuse to keep talking to him. But alas, for some reason I went with the truth.
“Historical fiction?” he clarified.
The primitive, judge-y part of my brain cut in—ugh. I hated historical fiction. Well, they never said good looks went with intelligence. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, can’t help. I don’t work here.”
He cocked his head and looked at me, confused.
Oh, he’s very cute when he’s confused.
My heart flittered, and my brain turned to mush as I pretended to rub my forehead, using the moment as a chance to steal another glance of him. His body was tall and lean with broad shoulders, and he was wearing dark jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. As I gazed at him, I felt a magnetic pull, and for a moment I thought about knocking my books out of his hand, just to see him bend over again.
His blue eyes darkened and seared into me as he angled his head to the left. “Seriously?”
I rubbed my forehead and nodded at the stack of books in his hands. “Yeah. Could I have my books, please?”
He looked me up and down, an amused expression playing on his lips. Eventually he stepped forward, and I took a half step back only to realize I was now pinned between him and a shelf. He paused there for a moment, and I felt the air shift between us before he reached out and grabbed my hand, placing the heap of paperbacks in it. I gripped them tightly, and as he let go, one of his fingers grazed mine, sending a prickle of electricity through me.
“Ah. Well, that explains the swearing,” he teased, and the corners of his mouth twitched up. Was he
smirking
at me? He was.
I felt a deep heat take over my face and instantly chided myself. As far as I was concerned, a woman could swear if she fucking well pleased, and I was about to tell him just that when he continued.
“Well, can I just say that you and your glasses and cardigan build a very convincing case.”
I frowned. “You’re stereotyping pretty heavily there, don’tcha think?” I admonished. Great. Now hot guy was typecasting me.
“It wasn’t an insult.”
“Oh?” I said, lowering my eyes and padding the word with sarcasm.
“I actually dig a librarian vibe.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So is that why you’re hanging out here? To seduce bookish chicks?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Is it working?”
I didn’t say anything.
“That’s a nice perfume you’re wearing, what is it?”
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Gag me with a stick. I wasn’t wearing any fucking perfume. I knew my reaction was borderline rude, but I couldn’t help it. The last few years had left me pretty jaded in the men department. Sure, they are all nice and flirty, but invariably they’d find out about my secret and head for the hills.
Yes, it had happened to me. Yes, more than once.
“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.” His eyes lightened as he copped an easy smile. “You know, some women actually find me charming.”
“I don’t find you charming.”
“Yet…”
“Huh?”
“You don’t find me charming,
yet
.” He crossed his arms and shrugged. “I accept that.”
We paused in silence, the air thick with…something.
“I don’t think I got your name.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Why do you want my name?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Relax, sweetheart. Just being polite. I’m not asking for your social security number.”
I paused. Maybe he was right.
God, Natalie, why do you have to be so suspicious of everyone,
I reprimanded myself. Hot guy wants to know your name. Maybe guys on the West Coast won’t be like the guys back East.
Give him your fucking name.
I cleared my throat. “Natalie.”
“Natalie.” He took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. I became acutely aware that my body was still stuck between him and the bookshelf behind me. “And does Miss Natalie have a last name?” He offered a controlled smile and deep eye contact which made me go weak in the knees. I ventured to guess very few women would be immune to this man, and that made me suspect. I may have been a smitten jumble of emotions, but I sure as hell wasn’t dumb.
I shook my head.
“No, you don’t have a last name, or no, you’re not going to tell me?”
I countered with a shrug. “You haven’t told me your name.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re right. How rude of me.” He offered his hand. “Ryan.”
I shifted so my stack of books balanced on my hip and carefully shook his hand. As my hand met his, I felt another pulse of electricity rip through me. I knew I should have looked away, but there he was again, trapping me with his stare. Something in his eyes told me he knew exactly what effect he was having on me.
He felt it, too. I knew it. Or did he? Hell, was I imagining this? I mean, this
was
San Francisco, after all. There was a high chance he wasn’t even straight, and Lord knew I’d also made
that
mistake before.
Crap.
“So?” He looked at me expectantly.
“So?” I mirrored, thoroughly confused.
“Your last name.” Right. He wanted to know my last name. Which meant he was probably not gay. Unless I’d managed to run into the one hot, gay, linguistic etymologist in San Francisco. The city wasn’t
that
big.
“I uh,” I stammered, trying to buy time as I started to feel myself flush again.
Dammit.
I hated getting into situations like this, and I’m positive no other woman would ever understand. See, to any onlooker Natalie Reese was a fairly competent, unattached, thirty-year-old woman in a new city, and if a hot guy was hitting on her, you’d think she’d do nothing to get in the way. However, I had a secret that was a deal breaker, and I was ashamed.
I was still a virgin.
I can explain. But first, let me back up.
This wasn’t how I’d planned it. According to
The Plan
, I was supposed to be married to
Serious Boyfriend #2
by now, and in fact, we were supposed to be having our first child by this autumn. However, things clearly weren’t
going
according to my plan. I’d had some stumbling blocks, starting with Serious Boyfriend #1, and now the entire timeline was off course.
I was, however, taking steps to remedy this. The first step was moving to a new city. Because I couldn’t execute
Plan B
anywhere I didn’t feel completely anonymous. It sounds extreme, I know, but I’d spent years sidetracking my entire life, and I wasn’t willing to be held captive to it anymore. Before I could even entertain the idea of any suitor, I needed to take care of this…problem.
“Natalie?”
“Huh?”
“You seem…distracted.” His brow knit together in concern. That thick, luscious brow.
“Sorry, no, just have a lot on my mind. I just moved here from New York. Lots to do, you know?”
He pressed his lips together in a flat line. “I see. Work or boyfriend?”
“Huh?” Wait, what did he just say?
“I said, work or boyfriend. People don’t generally just pack up and move across the country unless they have a good reason. I’m guessing you are what, twenty-nine?”
Thirty
I said silently to myself. He continued.
“And no girl your age uproots like that unless there’s a very good reason.” He paused and cocked his head. “Oh wait, unless…break-up?”
He was speaking quickly, and I had a hard time keeping up. Did he just ask me if I’d broken up with a boyfriend? I shook my head. “No, no break-up.”
He grinned as he stuck his hands back in the front pockets of his jeans. “Okay. New city, no break-up. So we’re back to my original question: work or boyfriend?”
I sighed. Okay, maybe he was a
little
charming.
“Work.”
His eyes lit up.
“That’s fantastic.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, I mean, I happen to be an excellent tour guide. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Oh, look I uh, I’m not sure if I have time to—”
“I understand,” he cut me off, “listen, give me your phone.” He held out his hand, expectantly.
I cocked my head at him, but reached into my purse and pulled out my smartphone. “Why do you—”
He grabbed it out of my hand and started typing.
“Are you trying to pick me up?” I asked, suddenly emboldened.
Thanks lady-balls, for finally showing up.
