The Other F-Word (13 page)

His hard breaths and the light sheen of sweat that glistened against his skin made me pant, even though I’d exerted only a portion of the energy he had. Even his sweat smelt delicious.

“I won,” he said.

“How did you learn how to dance like that?”

He encircled his arms around my waist, bringing my pelvis against the metal bar that separated us. He bent down. His chest was pressed against mine. I was sure I could feel his heartbeat against my skin…or maybe it was mine. “Can you keep a secret?”

I shivered hearing his low husky voice.

“I was a stripper.”

I wiggled out of his grasp. “Seriously?” I looked behind us, but the other sounds of video game pings and loud chatter drowned us out.

He smiled. “I needed a lot of capital and I couldn’t keep going to my dad. So, that was my second job from the time I was eighteen until I turned twenty-two.”

“But…but…”

He brought his finger to his lips. “Shhh, I have a reputation to protect and besides, if my mom ever found out, she’d kill me.”

“How do you keep it a secret? You’re so successful.”

He shrugged. “People figure it out. I don’t give a fuck. That’s why being cocky is a useful tool. No one brings it up. I had a pseudonym and I worked mostly private gigs anyway.”

I cupped my hand to my mouth. “What was your—?” I was about to say stripper name, but corrected myself. “Pseudonym?”

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, making it some kind of messy beautiful. My fingers twitched in response. “Longfellow,” he said with a wink.

“Longfellow?”

“Yeah and let’s just say, it’s not because I like poetry.”

I swallowed. “I assure you, I made no such assumption. You’re full of surprises, Mr Wolfe.”

“Don’t think it wasn’t hard work. I definitely had to earn my paycheque, which meant I needed to know how to dance.”

“Judging from the way you just moved, I’m sure you earned every penny.”

“Yeah, well, my question is why didn’t you move, country girl? Did you let me win that one?”

“I got a cramp,” I lied.

His sexy smirk told me he wasn’t buying that for a minute.

“I guess it’s a tie. Good job,” I said, holding out my hand to shake his.

He shook his head. “Nu-uh, that’s not how two out of three works, baby.”

My heart slammed into my gut when he called me baby.

“We don’t have to declare a winner. This is a friendly game.” I cursed myself for the high-pitched, nervous quality of my voice.

“There is always a winner. If you quit, it’s forfeit. I win by default.”

“I’m not quitting.”

“Then play with me,” he commanded in a low, gruff voice. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded as sexual as hell.

I didn’t answer.

He leaned against the metal bars and crossed his arms, staring at me with those blazing golden eyes, challenging me. He knew how to push all my buttons. That was probably the one argument he could have made to get me to play another round.

He turned to the other patrons and clapped his hands. “Attention everyone. We’re at a standstill.” He raised his arms up in a gesture to get them riled. It worked as crowd started forming around us. “Who wants a tie-breaker?”

They whooped and yelled, eventually chanting in unison, “Tie-breaker, tie-breaker, tie-breaker.”

I swear to God, it sounded like, ‘tie and break her’ to me.

“The people have spoken, Jessie. Let’s not disappoint them. You pick the song.” He gestured to the console.

I punched the buttons, picking
Hips Don’t Lie
by the very sexy Shakira and Wyclef Jean. I might not have been a stripper, but I sure as hell had moves. I untied my knotted hair, letting my locks fall against my back. I slowly unbuttoned my billowy peasant blouse, feeling braver with his hitched breaths. He scanned my thin black tank top with appreciation. Fuck conservative. Forget funky. It was time to get my freak on. He didn’t whistle or smirk this time. I was casting my own spell.

I pressed the start button. The music boomed, loud and lusty. I used the best move in any woman’s arsenal…the hip shake—sexy, classy, effective. He stood in place, hands on his hips, staring at me as if his board had turned to liquid cement, keeping him trapped.

I looked at him the whole time, rather proud that I was winning our little game. Not the actual game we were playing, although I was going to easily win that too. I was talking about the game of seduction. I piled my hair up on my head, twisting my waist and glancing back at him while I moved my hips with the grace of a hula dancer. Just when his hands clenched against the metal bar between us did I let my hair spill down. I crooked my finger at him in a suggestive gesture.

Then he fucked me up again, licking that bottom lip before jumping over the guard rail that separated our gaming areas. He pulled me against his chest, and moved us in a slow samba. His strong arms enveloped me, as his lips brushed my temple. God help me, I would have had sex with him right then.

The applause broke the spell and we both just looked at each other with disappointed expressions.

“I want you so bad, Jessie. Give up. Give in. Give yourself to me,” he said softly, taking me into a strong embrace that was anything but comforting. Then he pulled away and raised our conjoined hands at the crowd. “We’re here every Saturday folks, but for now, I’d appreciate it if you’d help me keep the lights on and spend some cash.”

I stood on my tiptoes so I could whisper in his ear. “You can’t handle a cougar, cowboy.”

He placed my hand on his chest. “Claw away, baby.”

A part of me wanted to follow him anywhere, but my self-preservation mode kicked in right then. I was having one of those weird ‘looking into the future’ moments women tormented themselves with. I scanned the lingering crowd. All young girls in their skimpy shirts and cut-off jeans with jewellery sticking out of their belly buttons, staring at him like he was the last Red Bull and vodka in town and glaring at me like I was the fire-breathing dragon preventing them from quenching their thirst. Their nasty looks echoed the mean phrases I imagined ran through their minds…‘what’s he doing with her’? It was a question I asked myself.

He could have any of them. Hell, he probably could have all of them at once. I wasn’t a girl that suffered from low self-esteem by any means. But seriously, why did he want me? The answer was quick and sudden.
He wants to fuck you, Mason. That’s all he really wants.

There was no doubt it would be the most fantastic sex I’d ever have, but my worry was what would happen in the morning? Would it be over? His conquest won? His challenge complete? That devastation wasn’t worth one night of passion for me, no matter how epic it might be.

The best memories were muscle memories, and the memory of a broken heart was the sharpest of all. It wasn’t about the sexual attraction…okay, it was. It was more than that too. I cared about him. I liked him. There was no way I was going to risk my delicate heart to him so he could crush it. So I smiled weakly and waved goodbye before running away like a scared kitty cat. Because in reality, that was what I was.

“Jessie?” He ran after me, calling my name.

My special name…but I got into my car before he reached me, and I hit the accelerator, leaving him there.

Chapter Eleven

Along with my dignity, I’d also left my purse, folder and sunglasses at the restaurant. He couriered the items back to me that night with a dozen long-stemmed, pink roses and a note asking me to call him. I didn’t. The following day, he had a messenger bring me twelve take out containers of food with a note.

You didn’t to try the menu last night so I had the chef make these for you. Do you want company? There’s no way you can eat all this by yourself. Call me.

I didn’t.

I got a voicemail too. “Jessie, I have no idea what happened. If I did something that offended you, I’m sorry. Please call me. I’m worried about you.”

Then another. “Jessie, I don’t know why you’re avoiding me. I thought there was this crazy chemistry the other night. Just call me.”

Then another. “Is it because I was a stripper?” His sarcastic laugh made me shiver. “I didn’t think of you as the judgmental type.” That actually made me laugh too because the truth was I wasn’t a fan of strippers or anything, but the way he moved had turned me on so much, I was actually very appreciative of that form of art now.

Then a final. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. It’s pissing me off.”

Damien knew where I lived, but he never showed up. I was glad for that.

A few days later, I received an email that with an attached gift of an iTunes song download from Damien Wolfe. I opened it to find
Believer
by American Authors. I’d never heard it, but I loved it.

What the hell?
Was he actually trying to communicate with me through music? This was a game I’d invented. Why had he had to pick such an awesome song too?

I sent him Sara Bareilles’
Love Song
because it was actually the anti-love song—its lyrics spoke of being overwhelmed and unable to reciprocate his feelings. It was a perfect expression of what I was feeling.

He sent back
I Will Wait
by Mumford & Sons—a song that left me speechless because it suggested his feelings were much deeper than I’d thought. I couldn’t allow myself to believe it. So fuck it, I brought out the big guns and sent back
Let It Be
. He sent back a Beatles song too—
We Can Work It Out
.

Damn…even The Beatles were against me.

* * * *

It had been two weeks since the Damien dance fiasco. He’d stopped texting and sending me gifts of songs. I cursed myself every day, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. There were so many women who had one-night stands—why was I so freaked out by it? I was a feminist for God’s sake!

Then one humdrum Tuesday, Alan approached me. “Are you all set for the meeting?” he asked, grinning. He’d had a perma-grin since Damien had agreed to host the fundraiser.

“What meeting?”

Alan’s smile faltered into a frown instantly. “With Damien Wolfe. I thought you set it up. He emailed and said the three of us were meeting to finalize everything.”

“Everything’s pretty final until the menus are chosen.”

Realisation slowly dawned on me. I smelt his intoxicating scent and felt his presence before my eyes feasted upon him. He wore a crisp navy suit and the maroon tie I loved.

“Good to you see you again, Alan. Are we ready?” he asked, shaking Alan’s hand and ignoring me.

“Let me just get my notebook and I’ll meet you two in the conference room,” Alan replied, rubbing his goatee. He was worried.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped in a low whisper.

“Just checking to make sure you were all right. Did you understand my messages?”

“I’m fine. Yes, I completely got them. I know all about communicating through song.”

“I figured you’d appreciate the gesture.”

“Damien, I’m just not—”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You don’t have to give me a litany of excuses. I got your messages too, loud and clear. I just wanted to make sure you were okay because I obviously did something that upset you.”

I sighed. “It’s not you. You’re wonderful.”

“Then what is it, Jessie?”

I leaned in closer, not to be overheard. It was a mistake because his clean, manly scent coiled around me. “I can’t go around banging stripper billionaires. I’m a grandma, for God’s sake.”

His pursed his sexy lips, trying to hide his amused expression. “Ex-stripper. I only tease for pleasure now.”

I struggled to hold back the smile threatening to escape.

“So it is because I was a stripper. I never thought you were so…prudish.”

“I am not a prude. I toured with the Grateful Dead, you know.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises. I like that.”

“Yeah well, that’s the thing. I’m not that girl who trades salacious flirtations with a man fifteen years her junior in a bar anymore, who wants a one-night stand so he can carve another notch on his sizable bedpost. I’m sorry, that’s just not me.”

He looked hurt. It was my turn to be surprised.

He walked past me to the conference room. I followed behind. We had what could be described as the most boring meeting in the world. I went over the plans. Damien paid attention, but didn’t meet my eyes. Alan agreed with everything, turning to Damien for confirmation, and constantly rubbing that damn goatee of his.

Damien followed me back to the circulation desk once the meeting adjourned. He grasped my hand, pulling me towards him. It was the middle of the afternoon and there was no one around. I got very nervous nonetheless.

“Let me share some truth with you. I never said I wanted a one-night-stand. I’m sorry if you thought that’s all this was, but that delusion was of your own making. Did you think I had some older woman fetish? My only infatuation was with you, Jessie. Thank you for curing me of it. Goodbye.”

He sauntered away, without looking back. I stared down at my open hand where his touch was still warm. My mouth gaped as a heaviness so deep and profoundly painful hit my heart. In my palm was a single, shimmering, midnight-blue sequin.

Chapter Twelve

I left him a voicemail. “Damien, I’m sorry. I’m stubborn and stupid at times. Can we start over? Call me.”

He never did. I sent him a song, hoping the music would convey what I couldn’t express. How badly I’d fucked up.
Sorry
by Buckcherry seemed like the right statement. I’d thought about sending him
Crazy Bitch
by them because the title was more fitting.

He never replied. I was such an idiot.

I made the mistake of reading the newspaper and seeing his photo at some formal charity dinner. He looked so handsome in his black tuxedo with the slim lapels like a forties movie star. He even had a white scarf, but his most prominent accessory was the gorgeous redhead draped on his arm. The tagline said she was a runway model. Of course she was.

Jason Mraz’s
A Beautiful Mess
, was playing, mocking me for my stupid insecurities.