Undying Love (27 page)

Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at her at the 72nd Street entrance to the park at 7:30. As I reached for my phone, the buzzer on my intercom sounded. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Nervously, I pressed the button and talked into the intercom. “Yes?” My voice trailed off.

“Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless my new evil boss had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not one bit happy about it. So, this was her revenge.

I pushed the button on the intercom that unlocked the front door. “Just leave it on the stairs.”

“You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

“Fine. I’ll be right down.”

Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. The aftershocks of my orgasm measured 6.0 on the “I can come” scale.

Waiting for me at the base of the staircase was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me.

“Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt. Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and now this was her way of sending me a message.

Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight ass jeans and some Roberto Cavalli bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street CEO, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time my new bitch boss sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap version of bohemian whatever, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed and scented women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.

I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away and then I gasped. Facing me was a beautifully folded black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs. Size 6. No price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was gorgeous. Simple but elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?

My eyes returned to the box and came upon a small white envelope with my name printed on it. Draping the dress over an arm, I reached for it and pulled out the contents from under the unsealed flap. My eyes grew big as I read the note and so did the explosions that were rocking my body.

Ms. Greene~ Please wear this tonight. I shall collect you at 8 p.m. Please be downstairs.~Trainman

PS Please do not wear pantyhose

A mixture of holy cow and damn him took saturated my brain. How the heck did he know where I lived? Wait. Of course, the stalker must have gone through my messenger bag while I was waiting to use the restroom on that damn train. He got my address from my driver’s license. He must know everything about me. My height. My weight. My checking account number with my home phone number. My social security number. What kind of gum I chewed (Big Red). Crap. I bet he even thumbed through my sketchpad and read the journal I kept with my favorite sayings.

One of them flashed into my head. “
When in doubt, leave it out.”
Damn it! I should have never let him sink his cock inside me. None of this would have happened. None of it. Except… there was no doubt. I had wanted him as much as he had wanted me.

And now there was another problem. I couldn’t see him tonight. I had plans with Lauren. Trust me, she rubbed it my face that she was able to get those reserved-seating Black Eyed Peas tickets because her father’s investment company managed Fergie’s assets and that I was lucky that she counted me as one of her best friends.

The shrill ring of my phone hurled me out of my thoughts. It must be Lauren. I dreaded answering it because she got super mad if I didn’t call her back right away. For a friend, she was very high maintenance.

Finally, after the fifth ring, just before the call went to my answering machine, I ran over to it and picked up the receiver.

“Saarah, do you like your dress?”

Fuck. It was him. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly rose ten degrees.

“It’s very nice.” Who was I kidding? It was the most fabulous dress I’d ever owned. And the most expensive.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”

Shit! How the hell was I going to tell him that I had plans? That I couldn’t see him tonight.

CLICK.

I wasn’t. I immediately dialed Lauren’s number. Her answering machine was on.
Beep.

“Lauren, something’s come up. I can’t go to the concert tonight. I’ll explain tomorrow. Have fun.”

CLICK. Phew! That saved me from having a nasty, drawn out conversation with her. I suppose I could also try her on her cell, but truthfully, I didn’t want to. And I wasn’t feeling that guilty. She had her entourage. I’d still pay the consequences tomorrow, but right now, I had to get ready for my date with Trainman.

Taking my new dress with me, I headed toward the bedroom that was adjacent to the living room. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining, but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.

I unbolted the door.

Chewing a big wad of gum, she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent, “I was just on my way to shul when this came for you.” She handed me a shopping bag. Inside was another gift- wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?

Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “Hot date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”

God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.

“So, how’s your mother doing?”

Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sicker than she already was. I fought back tears.

“She’s hanging in there.”

“Oy!” She shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight.”

“Thanks.” Mrs. Blumberg meant well. It was hard not to like her even though she could be annoying.

“So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”

God, she was being difficult.

“Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

“I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You gotta a hot date.”

Her voice trailed off as she shuffled to the door to my apartment. Closing it behind her, she got in her last two cents. “Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled with the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open with the hunger of a starving wolf. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted the lid to find another note, the sexy, bold handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress.

Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.—TM

Holy cow! He bought me shoes? The kind you see in
Vogue
and the copy says: “Price on Request.” A creamy white duster bag encased the shoes. My heart pounding, I removed the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe pumps. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two sizes too wide combat boots stuffed with inner soul pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

A horrifying thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A 6’2” pillar.

I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hallway to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me was not doing anything to help my balance
. Focus, Sarah. Focus.
Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another…I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.

My shoebox size bedroom, painted in another shade of hot pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, faux-French mirrored armoire, matching nightstand and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish leopard-print satin sheets left behind by the transsexual. Not wanting the dress near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my peasant skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my t-shirt over my head, a waft of his cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this t-shirt. Hold on to it as keepsakes. A souvenir of losing my virginity.

Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Jimmy’s, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert champagne-cup breasts, aware of the hardening and soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Trainman nipping and tugging them filled my head. An electric current surged through my body.

Holding onto the armoire, I removed my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold them to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of
Law and Order
popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime. Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Cum-Soaked Pantyhose.”

Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole in the wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow, tiled stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the residue of my Trainman encounter. I lathered my hair with shampoo and rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, surprised that the bud between it was so sensitive and engorged.

After conditioning my mid-back length hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me. A leopard print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my skin was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!

With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair into a ponytail and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip-gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Trainman licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At last minute—thank you, Mrs. Blumberg—I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a birthday present from Lauren.

I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip-gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and pulled it down. It stopped mid thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky satin was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.

“Don’t wear pantyhose.”
I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the narrow drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.

“
Remember, no pantyhose.”
Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Looms, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Jimmy’s and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.

Sarah, plain and tall in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. More
West Side Story
lyrics floated in my head. “See the pretty girl in the mirror there.” But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached my under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance.

The phone in the kitchen rang. My answering machine picked up. I could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, The Black Eyed Peas singing, “Tonight’s the Night” in the background. “Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.