You and I, Me and You (26 page)

Later, a shaken George and I recovered at Cinnabon, sucking down two buns with extra frosting apiece and lots of milk. We discussed our impressions of the thirty minutes that flew by like thirty hours.

“Mostly I felt intimidated,” I volunteered, unaware of the frosting on my nose that George was too shaken or cruel to bring to my attention. “But also really looked-after. Patrick gave her five mil, but that didn't stop her from yelling at me for … for however long we were trapped in there.”

“It was a really long time,” George said, rocking back and forth in a sort of seated fetal position.

“For all she knows, Patrick and I are still dating, but she didn't act like she had to be nice in the hopes of getting more out of him later. That's what sticks out in my mind.” The incredible wonderful thing that stuck out in my mind was that the money didn't matter to her more than my safety. Shiro might be on the right track. Maybe
I'd
start collecting mother figures.

“For me, it's the terror,” George said, shaking like a junkie needing a fix. Which we sort of were, what with the pastry and sugar and butter jones. “It's all about the terror. And the extreme arousal. I'm pretty sure she wants me.”

“George…”

“No, hear me out.”

 

chapter sixty-two

This is nuts.
Seriously stupidly nuts. Also: slutty.

It had finally started to snow again, and I shivered while I stood outside Max Gallo's apartment and beat on the door with the flat of my hand.

He jerked the door open, then grabbed me, hauled me inside, and slammed the door. “What? What?”

“What—what?” I blinked up at him, snow melting and dripping in my eyes. “I wanted to see you.”

He blew out a breath. “Whew! You showed up out of nowhere like Wonder Woman and started knocking my door down. I figured a pack of serial killers or shrinks was after you at the least.”

“No. Sorry to scare you.”

He was taking my coat, clucking over my snow-splashed hair and clothes, and gently pushing me into the living room. “Hey, you can scare me whenever you want. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. Don't worry, you'll find I'm a boyfriend who loves the pop-in. Or at least I'm not threatened by it. Are you all right?”

I had stopped walking with him, frozen stock-still and staring. I knew his home address, of course, and BOFFO's version of MapQuest practically drove the car for you, chatting with you about the weather and fixing you a cup of cocoa and reminding you to put on your gloves because it was only twenty-nine degrees and snowing.

So I knew he had an apartment in a run-down building in the North Loop, the warehouse district, whose streets ran parallel to the river a few blocks from downtown. And the outside matched my expectations: a three-story dark red brick warehouse, built in the early twentieth century, sort of looming over the street, which was well-lit and clean, given the recent ooh-it's-so-trendy-to-live-in-a-warehouse-loft trend. But still: warehouse!

I had stopped short because my only thought had been to go to Max, so I'd parked and trotted across the street and through the door and beat on the door and practically ran in and had only now realized I was standing in his luxurious living room with twenty-foot-high ceilings, enormous windows, and a chandelier.

“Oh, that,” he said, following my slack-jawed gaze. “It came with the building. I dunno, I keep wanting to get rid of it and then I remember I like shiny things.”

“You're rich!”

“I am?” He gazed around at the hardwood floors, the living room that was at least thirty feet by thirty feet, the cream-colored walls, the plum-colored leather couches and glass-topped tables, the oxen-sized fireplace, as if seeing it with fresh eyes. “Yeah, kinda.”

“‘Kinda'?”

“What, you didn't know? I never told you where I live, but here you are. I assumed you pulled my financials when you thought I might be a suspect in JBJ.”

“I was sure you were poor!”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Nope.”

“What?”

He shook his head so hard, his hair flew about his face like black feathers until it settled back. “Not tellin'.”

“Come on,” I coaxed. “I told you my gross embarrassing secret.”

“Yeah, except yours isn't gross
or
embarrassing. Mine is.”

“Were you a gigolo?”

“Yes, but I never made this kind of money.”

“Seriously, what?” I grabbed his hands and squeezed. “What, what, whaaaaat? Tell me!”

“It's stupid,” he warned me.

“Oh, I'm sure it is, but I want to know.”

“I won the lottery.”

“Come on.”

“I did. I won the lottery. Thirty-two million.”

I stared. He looked back calmly. “For real?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you embarrassed about it?”

“Because it's so dumb,” he groaned, actually staggering under the weight of the dumbness of it all. “I never bought a ticket ever. I wanted a Coke and a Snickers and bought the thing on a lark, and I won thirty-two million dollars. It's so dumb I can hardly stand it.”

“It
is
dumb,” I agreed, “but I think it's nice. You deserve to have money.” Interesting how careful he was with his things. In his head, he was still poor. That was all right. In my head, I was still three people.

“Listen, the reason I'm here … I broke up with Patrick.”

He blinked. “I remember. We went over this yesterday.”

“Right. Don't worry, I haven't grown another personality. I remember the conversation, too. Most of it. But since then I've done some thinking and went to see my boss/mother figure, who I've forgiven for her betrayal because in a creepy way she did it out of sort-of love.”

“Okay.”

“And I still have a job if I want it.” At his puzzled look, I added, “I'll get into that later.”

“You can't mean the FBI would ever want to let you go.
You?
”

“I'm not sure,” I said truthfully. I'd like to think if the FBI knew my track record they'd want to keep me on the team after they let me on the team in the first place.…

(Focus.)

“Long story short, it looked like we were gonna have to shut down and now we don't have to, but I'm not sure if I'll stay or go because there's some honesty issues. But it's nice to have options.”

Max gestured to his warehouse palace and winked. “It is.”

“And I've moved into another house, my best friend's old house, and I'd like you to come visit. Not right this second. But soon.”

He leaned in and kissed my mouth, still cold from being outside. “Can't wait. And I love that you came over. And I love that you had a good day. Listen, I think I know why you're here and like I said, I'm fine with it. The virginity thing. I know you're gonna need time to—nnph.”

I'd seized him and kissed him back. “Is there a bedroom in the ballroom you live in?”

A man of instant decision, Max Gallo grabbed my hand and we galloped through the cavernous living room and kitchen (his warehouse castle was on an open floor plan), past floor lamps glowing with mellow light, a line of barstools around a stainless steel kitchen island, a low table and matching chairs in the dining area, down a window-lined hall—

“You live all by yourself in this big old warehouse, don't you?”

“Sure.”

—and into his bedroom, which was narrow but quite long. The tall walls were the same cream color as the living room and kitchen, and the same enormous windows lined one side of the room, showing the lights from the Mississippi. There was a lone desk with a matching chair, and an open laptop up top, and a series of shelves on the opposite wall on which were stacked about a hundred T-shirts and pairs of scrub pants. The ceiling fan, twenty feet over our heads, spun lazily.

“Your home is beautiful, and your wall o' scrub pants is lovely. It's just like you. Like the warehouse. It looks one way on the outside and it's something else inside.”

“I didn't have a lot of space to myself as a kid, so I've overcompensated like any damaged adult.” He was rapidly divesting himself of his clothing as he talked. “Listen, we don't have to do this tonight if you don't want.” I heard the clink of his belt, the rattle of change as his jeans hit the floor. “You've been through a lot in a short time.” He kicked free of the denim puddle. “You should take all the time you need.” Off went the T-shirt. “I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere. I'll wait as long as you want. I'd wait ten years if you wanted.”

The socks went flying over my shoulder—why would he throw them
at
me? “So just … y'know.” He took me by the waist and kissed me harder than I had ever been kissed. “No pressure.”

“Ten years, huh?”

“Oh please no.”

I laughed and my mouth opened to him and I inhaled his sweet dark scent, cotton and leather. “My exact sentiments. Ummm … you taste
really
good.”

He groaned and sort of waltzed me to the bed, which if I'd seen it in a movie would have been corny, but Max Gallo pulled it off. “If you want this to last longer than thirty seconds, could you not talk? Or move? Or make eye contact?”

I laughed harder, but that could have been because his hands were up under my turtleneck, tugging gently at my bra and then slipping up under it … ack! Ticklish there, very ticklish there!

I felt his long fingers brush the undersides of my breasts and shivered as a bolt of pleasure went to my … knees? Weird. I didn't know there were nerves that connected those parts. Then he was pulling the turtleneck over my head, and slowly unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down my thighs. He left my bra, panties, and socks alone, for which I was momentarily grateful: I didn't want this to go too fast, and the floor was chilly.

“Oh, God, you're so beautiful!” His hands were on my waist and his mouth was still hard against mine; I could feel his fingers wanting to dig and clutch, felt him force those digging fingers into immobility.

“It's okay,” I said, licking his lower lip. “I came here to be mauled.”

“No eye contact!” He took a full step back. “Whew! Close one. Seriously: I'm doing you a favor by lowering your sexual expectations.”

“And
what
a favor,” I teased. I slid my arms around him and slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only thing remaining after the blizzard of clothes he'd whirled through. The skinny guy had an outstanding ass. Like if I ran a quarter down his back and let fly …
zwiiiiiip!
“Don't worry. I can't imagine it could be anywhere near as spectacular as I've spent over a decade imagining.”

He groaned good-naturedly, rubbed my back, then slid his fingers beneath my bra strap, but so lightly and slowly I could barely feel—

(fwip!)

“Wow,” I said, impressed as my bra seemed to unhook itself. “That was practically telekinetic.”

“Now isn't the time to discuss how I worked my way through medical school, but remind me to bring it up later.” He was kissing my collarbone, my shoulders, the hollow of my throat. He was leading me further into the bedroom until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Then he slowly went to his knees, moving my bra aside and trailing kisses down my body as he did.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against my cleavage. He slipped the bra down one shoulder and then the other, and, still on his knees, took my waist in his hands and licked the tender undersides of my breasts. “Brave. Strong. Smart. Oh, God, you're lovely.” His lips were on my stomach, his tongue darted into the cup of my belly button—more nerves that ran right to my knees! Weird—and still he went lower.

He reached for my socks—“Ack, no! The floor is freezing!” (Stupid warehouse.)—then left them on, nudged my legs apart, and began kissing the insides of my thighs. I gasped and then he didn't have to do any nudging; I was nudging my own damned legs apart, thank you very much.

He never touched my Cookie Monster panties; instead he kissed and teased and licked the tender skin between my thighs for more than a thousand years. I let my head loll back on my shoulders until I was staring at the ceiling and not seeing a damned thing. He could have not had a ceiling at all and I wouldn't have noticed, and fuck the snow.

Around year 1,267 my knees started to go and I fell back on the bed, and now thank God, thank
Christ,
at last his hands were on my panties

(“C is for cookie, that's good enough for meeee!”)

and he was sliding them past my knees and then my ankles and then they went flying (I figured they'd hit somewhere near his socks).

He was supporting himself with one hand on the bed and kneeling over me holding himself with the other and I reached, I reached for him and found him long and velvety and hard at the same time, and he said, he slurred, he stammered through black lust that matched my own, “Are you all right, C-Cadence? Can I—?” And speech had left around year 231 so I nodded and tried to subtly convey my need by grabbing his shoulders and yanking him like I was going to cuff him

(Ooh!)

and for once I was glad

(Fuck me, oh fuck me, you're going to fuck me now because I really insist that you FUCK ME NOW, PLEASE, AND DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT TWICE.)

I was thinking out loud.

He sort of groaned and sighed at once as his lovely length slid into me, and if I'd retained any ability to speak I would have lost it in that moment. The feeling, the fit—indescribable. All I knew was, all those women's magazines had gotten it wrong. By a lot. Because this was like nothing on earth. The earth wasn't moving and it wasn't a little death; it was a little
life
. It was like that and more and I would have liked to keep pondering it, but that was beyond me now. Everything that wasn't Max Gallo was beyond me now and all I could do was clutch his shoulders and cry out into his mouth while his tongue took me above while his cock took me below and I