Sex Love Repeat
Page 9
It hurts, the expression I make, the contortion of my face as my jaw drops and eyes open wide, dried edges of the mask pulling and protesting as I stare in shock.
Her.
Tucked under Stewart’s arm, their faces beaming, as they walked past me in Livello.
A carefree wave to the valet as she left Stewart’s world and headed elsewhere.
On her knees, surrounded by books, spewing out friendliness as she gave away lighthearted mysteries.
Her. Stewart’s love, the reason for his smile. Hugging Paul. Kissing Paul.
The camera flips to another surfer, and my world blurs, my thoughts moving too quickly for rational thought, question after question pounding through my mind. In the background, the microwave shrills a persistent beep, repeating and repeating, like the countdown timer to a bomb of horrific proportions.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
HOLLYWOOD, CA
MADISON
I enter the bedroom, flipping on the lights and heading to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I crawl into bed and turn on the television. Halfway through a stain-remover infomercial, I fall asleep.
At some point in the night, Stewart joins me, his arms pulling me tight to his body, his mouth soft against the back on my neck. I nestle into his body, murmuring his name, and sleep steals back over me. The next thing I hear is the soft ding of my alarm.
I move, half-awake, through the motions of cooking. Preheating a skillet. Pouring oil. Beating eggs. The bacon is sizzling in the pan when I lick my fingers and move down the hall, pressing the button next to the light switch that opens the blinds. They move, a soft hum of motors, light peeking through the large windows, the room still dim, dawn on the edge of our city’s horizon.
“Wakey wakey,” I sing, running my hands lightly through Stewart’s hair before planting a soft kiss on his lips. They move beneath my mouth, smiling, and he speaks against my kiss, his eyes still closed.
“It can’t be five already.”
“It is, baby. I don’t joke about interrupting sleep. I’ve got bacon in the pan, so I’ve got to get back to the stove.” I steal another kiss and then leave, trailing my hands across his bare chest, then jog back to the kitchen, snagging a pair of tongs and turning crispy bacon a moment before it burns.
I have the bacon on a plate and am scooping eggs out when I feel him enter, his heavy presence as palatable as a burst of hot air. I grin, knowing what is coming, before I feel his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing before he slides his hands around my stomach, coming up and brushing my breasts. He nuzzles my neck. “You can’t possibly expect me to eat food when you’re na**d.”
“I’m not na**d. I’m almost na**d,” I protest, slipping out of his hands and carrying our plates to the bar. “Now sit. I didn’t get up at 4:30 to have you ignore my breakfast.”
He obeys, moving my plate till it is next to his and pats the stool. “Well, almost na**d, if that is how you call it, looks damn tempting.”
“Thank you. You can thank Valentine’s Day, last year for that.”
He tilts his head. “Is that what I got you?”
“And a watch. But I didn’t feel like dripping diamonds while flipping bacon.”
He grins. “Understandable.”
“What’s the call with Helsinki about?”
“Rebranding. We’re splitting an entity into two parts and need a new brand for the new arm.”
Stewart works for a venture capitalist firm. They purchase assets that are typically struggling, then paint a new face on them, streamline their production processes, and use their bulk buying power and outsourcing to reduce costs. Many of his subcontractors are in Finland and India, which makes every hour of the day a business hour. He treats his new assets like children, becoming emotionally invested in their futures, their successes and their failures. I love his passion, and understand the time commitment and place in his life that his work possesses. In his life, work is first, and I am second. I am okay with that standing, just as he is okay with the fact that I will not make our relationship exclusive as long as I have that second-place ranking.
It doesn’t stop me from loving him any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from tugging when he smiles. It doesn’t stop my recognition that he loves me back, as much as his heart and schedule will allow. I don’t want our world to be any different than it is right now. A change in his priorities will mean a change in our relationship. A change in our relationship will mean that I have to choose between him and Paul. And I can’t do that. Not right now. I’m not ready for that jump.
He glances at the kitchen clock and bends over, placing a soft kiss on the edge of my lips. “Leave the dishes, babe. Estelle will be here soon. I’m gonna take that call.”
I nod. “I’m gonna head back to bed.”
And I do. I lose the lace underwire bra and matching thongs and crawl back to bed, the motorized blinds dragging the room back into darkness. My heavy breakfast and early morning causes sleep to come quickly, and I don’t wake ‘til late morning.
VENICE BEACH, CA
The bookstore is busy, a rare occurrence, and the afternoon passes quickly. I sell a grand total of sixty used books, bringing in a whopping hundred bucks. The new books do all right, too, bringing the owner some much-needed revenue and guaranteeing me at least one more month of employment. I lock up at eight, heading next door to the bar that shares our awning.
It is crowded, half tourists and half locals, familiar smiles greeting me as I grab a bar stool. Bip, the bartender, a pretty brunette that has managed to look eighteen for a good ten years longer than physically possible, pops a Corona top and slides it over to me.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat babe. Where’s your sexier half?”
“Somewhere on I-5. He’s with Nick and Moses, headed back from Del Mar.”
“They catch good conditions?”
“According to the text I got, the waves were great, but too many shoobies, it was a zoo.”
“That’s the problem with this time of year. Tourists everywhere.” She lowered her voice, glancing around before shooting me a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Hey, me either.” I toasted her, taking a swig of the beer and glancing at my watch. “Can you put in a large philly to go? I’m gonna head home before it gets too crazy.”
Venice Beach has been romanticized by Hollywood and an impressively deceptive tourism marketing campaign. They paint our sidewalk stands and street performers in a romantic light, touting our artistic graffiti and muscle beach as unique oddities. In actuality, it is the armpit of LA tourism. Panhandlers and druggies everywhere, homeless getting rich off of intimidated tourists and families of four too far from the safety of their car to say no. We have at least ten murders a year, over three hundred aggravated assaults and around a hundred rapes. The majority of those crimes happen to tourists, prostitutes, and drug users. Paul and I fall in the lower-risk demographic, but that doesn’t mean we are safe. Locals do their best to protect other locals, our misfit band of eccentrics attempting some basic form of civility. But I am a young, attractive female. Walking down the boardwalk after dark alone scares me. I call Paul and let him know I’m on my way home.
“Awesome babe. I’m twenty minutes away. Gonna drop the boys at their place and then I’ll be home. Call me when you get to the house, so I know you’re safe.”
I agree, hanging up my cell, and slip it into the pockets of my sweatshirt, the cash in my pocket burning my skin. Then I grab my food, throw a twenty on the bar, and head into the crowded night, a half-mile from home.
I move quickly through the crowds, my hood up despite the warm night air, ignoring the catcalls from men and the panhandlers who know me yet still stick out their hands. I nod to familiar faces and share words with a few locals. Then the crowds thin and I am on the sparse path that covers the last quarter-mile home. There are still tourists here, ones who didn’t realize that the South Venice parking lot is the wrong place to park, a long walk from the attractions, a much closer lot a quarter-mile north. We all hurry, the night sky unsettling, too many shadows and dark alleys in between the million dollar bungalows that face this oceanfront broken sidewalk.
Then I reach our street, head a block east and jog up the steps to our home, my key out and ready, the deadbolt flipping in the lock as soon as the door is fully shut. I strip off my sweaty pullover and call Paul, letting him know that I am home.
I hear his jeep rumble as I pull two beers from the fridge, popping their tops and carrying them to the coffee table, flipping the dead bolt switch on my way. He bounds up the steps, flinging the door open and crossing our living room in four easy steps, pulling me into his arms and taking my mouth. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist and he catches me, his hands strong on my ass, his mouth desperate on mine, like he has been away a month instead of a day. He carries me to the couch and tosses me down, the worn leather soft against my back, his mouth following my descent before softly releasing me. His eyes linger on me, a smile on his face before he wheels around and shuts the door.
We eat on the couch, sharing the sandwich, juice running down my wrists as I try to bite into the overfull sandwich. I get up twice for napkins and more beer, our conversation dancing over, but not touching, my activities last night. Paul prefers to not discuss the existence of Stewart. While Stewart approaches their shared split of my time as he would a business merger, coolly and unemotionally—it is much harder for Paul. I have all of Paul’s heart—surfing and his career taking a backseat to me, to my happiness. I’m sure he struggles with that—having half of me while giving me all of him. But I was with Stewart first, gave him that half of my heart before Paul ever came into the picture. Paul was just sex to me, a warm body to f**k my body and occupy my days while Stewart worked. But somewhere, over a year ago, Paul took the other half of my heart and I fell for him as well. I know it bothers Paul. I know that he is competitive and possessive and wants me to be only his. But he will not give me up over that desire, so he doesn’t fight it. He goes with the flow, and only asks for my happiness.
We eat, we watch tv, and then fuck—starting in the shower and taking the activity to our bed. Then we spoon, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep.
DANA
The definition of a secret is something not meant to be known by others.
What do you do when you discover a secret? Do you have a responsibility to share it? Or is the responsibility in the keeping of the secret?
I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So I will watch. And try to find out as much as I can about this woman. And why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.
I don’t know if she loves them or if toying with them. The chances of both of us loving them are too slim, too incredible to be a coincidence. What I don’t understand is why. Why these two men?
With the millions of men in Los Angeles, why date brothers?
MADISON
I watch Stewart sleep, the rise and fall of his strong chest. He is so rarely still, so rarely calm. Intensity is his standard; peace is a rare moment for me to view. At a time like this, when his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, I feel protective of him. As if I have some responsibility for his world, for his happiness, for his life. I love him, there has not been a question of that for some time. I fell quickly for this brilliant man—a man who has no time for anything more than bites of time and affection. He will never bounce our child on his knee or take me to the doctor when I am sick. Those are his limitations and he realizes that. Is regretful for that shortcoming but unwilling to change. He has chosen his lifestyle, and accepts the restrictions that come with it. Maybe one day he will change. Maybe one day his brow will relax and he will smile easily, laugh more often, and lose the suit and tie. Maybe he will be able to do more than f**k me senseless and kiss me before leaving me alone to sleep. Maybe he will have a life outside of work, and maybe I will still be around when that time comes. Life is too unpredictable to plan for that. What I do know, as I watch this beautiful man sleep, his face relaxed and body still, is that I love him. Just as much as I love Paul. And that, one day, will be a problem.
10 YEARS EARLIER
The fire burned hot, a wave of heat pushing Jennifer Brand back from the pit, her feet sinking in the thick sand. She tripped, stumbling backward, and was caught by strong arms, her gaze looking up and catching on gorgeous green eyes and a cocky smile.
“Gotcha.”
She blushed, gripping his forearms and pulled herself to solid sand, brushing off her legs. “Thanks.”
“It’s Jen, right?”
“Jennifer.” She hated Jen, hated the childish lilt of the name.
“Cool. Having fun?”
She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes drawn to his body, to the ripped six-pack he proudly displayed.
“We were actually about to jet. Head to a house party over in Summerset. You seem pretty cool... would you want to come?” He flashed a smile that any warm-blooded teen would be crazy to resist, a grin that displayed his dimples to perfection, his white teeth flashing at her in the dark.
Yes, I would love to come. I would love to do anything your perfect self deems necessary. She hesitated. “I’ve got to ask my brother, I came here with him.”
He stiffened slightly. “Really? Who?”
“Paul Brand.”
He stepped back a pace, surprise on his face. “Really? You’re Paul’s little sister?”
Nodding, she blushed at the impressed look he shot her. “Yeah.” It’s my birthday... so he brought me along.”
Her.
Tucked under Stewart’s arm, their faces beaming, as they walked past me in Livello.
A carefree wave to the valet as she left Stewart’s world and headed elsewhere.
On her knees, surrounded by books, spewing out friendliness as she gave away lighthearted mysteries.
Her. Stewart’s love, the reason for his smile. Hugging Paul. Kissing Paul.
The camera flips to another surfer, and my world blurs, my thoughts moving too quickly for rational thought, question after question pounding through my mind. In the background, the microwave shrills a persistent beep, repeating and repeating, like the countdown timer to a bomb of horrific proportions.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
HOLLYWOOD, CA
MADISON
I enter the bedroom, flipping on the lights and heading to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I crawl into bed and turn on the television. Halfway through a stain-remover infomercial, I fall asleep.
At some point in the night, Stewart joins me, his arms pulling me tight to his body, his mouth soft against the back on my neck. I nestle into his body, murmuring his name, and sleep steals back over me. The next thing I hear is the soft ding of my alarm.
I move, half-awake, through the motions of cooking. Preheating a skillet. Pouring oil. Beating eggs. The bacon is sizzling in the pan when I lick my fingers and move down the hall, pressing the button next to the light switch that opens the blinds. They move, a soft hum of motors, light peeking through the large windows, the room still dim, dawn on the edge of our city’s horizon.
“Wakey wakey,” I sing, running my hands lightly through Stewart’s hair before planting a soft kiss on his lips. They move beneath my mouth, smiling, and he speaks against my kiss, his eyes still closed.
“It can’t be five already.”
“It is, baby. I don’t joke about interrupting sleep. I’ve got bacon in the pan, so I’ve got to get back to the stove.” I steal another kiss and then leave, trailing my hands across his bare chest, then jog back to the kitchen, snagging a pair of tongs and turning crispy bacon a moment before it burns.
I have the bacon on a plate and am scooping eggs out when I feel him enter, his heavy presence as palatable as a burst of hot air. I grin, knowing what is coming, before I feel his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing before he slides his hands around my stomach, coming up and brushing my breasts. He nuzzles my neck. “You can’t possibly expect me to eat food when you’re na**d.”
“I’m not na**d. I’m almost na**d,” I protest, slipping out of his hands and carrying our plates to the bar. “Now sit. I didn’t get up at 4:30 to have you ignore my breakfast.”
He obeys, moving my plate till it is next to his and pats the stool. “Well, almost na**d, if that is how you call it, looks damn tempting.”
“Thank you. You can thank Valentine’s Day, last year for that.”
He tilts his head. “Is that what I got you?”
“And a watch. But I didn’t feel like dripping diamonds while flipping bacon.”
He grins. “Understandable.”
“What’s the call with Helsinki about?”
“Rebranding. We’re splitting an entity into two parts and need a new brand for the new arm.”
Stewart works for a venture capitalist firm. They purchase assets that are typically struggling, then paint a new face on them, streamline their production processes, and use their bulk buying power and outsourcing to reduce costs. Many of his subcontractors are in Finland and India, which makes every hour of the day a business hour. He treats his new assets like children, becoming emotionally invested in their futures, their successes and their failures. I love his passion, and understand the time commitment and place in his life that his work possesses. In his life, work is first, and I am second. I am okay with that standing, just as he is okay with the fact that I will not make our relationship exclusive as long as I have that second-place ranking.
It doesn’t stop me from loving him any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from tugging when he smiles. It doesn’t stop my recognition that he loves me back, as much as his heart and schedule will allow. I don’t want our world to be any different than it is right now. A change in his priorities will mean a change in our relationship. A change in our relationship will mean that I have to choose between him and Paul. And I can’t do that. Not right now. I’m not ready for that jump.
He glances at the kitchen clock and bends over, placing a soft kiss on the edge of my lips. “Leave the dishes, babe. Estelle will be here soon. I’m gonna take that call.”
I nod. “I’m gonna head back to bed.”
And I do. I lose the lace underwire bra and matching thongs and crawl back to bed, the motorized blinds dragging the room back into darkness. My heavy breakfast and early morning causes sleep to come quickly, and I don’t wake ‘til late morning.
VENICE BEACH, CA
The bookstore is busy, a rare occurrence, and the afternoon passes quickly. I sell a grand total of sixty used books, bringing in a whopping hundred bucks. The new books do all right, too, bringing the owner some much-needed revenue and guaranteeing me at least one more month of employment. I lock up at eight, heading next door to the bar that shares our awning.
It is crowded, half tourists and half locals, familiar smiles greeting me as I grab a bar stool. Bip, the bartender, a pretty brunette that has managed to look eighteen for a good ten years longer than physically possible, pops a Corona top and slides it over to me.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat babe. Where’s your sexier half?”
“Somewhere on I-5. He’s with Nick and Moses, headed back from Del Mar.”
“They catch good conditions?”
“According to the text I got, the waves were great, but too many shoobies, it was a zoo.”
“That’s the problem with this time of year. Tourists everywhere.” She lowered her voice, glancing around before shooting me a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Hey, me either.” I toasted her, taking a swig of the beer and glancing at my watch. “Can you put in a large philly to go? I’m gonna head home before it gets too crazy.”
Venice Beach has been romanticized by Hollywood and an impressively deceptive tourism marketing campaign. They paint our sidewalk stands and street performers in a romantic light, touting our artistic graffiti and muscle beach as unique oddities. In actuality, it is the armpit of LA tourism. Panhandlers and druggies everywhere, homeless getting rich off of intimidated tourists and families of four too far from the safety of their car to say no. We have at least ten murders a year, over three hundred aggravated assaults and around a hundred rapes. The majority of those crimes happen to tourists, prostitutes, and drug users. Paul and I fall in the lower-risk demographic, but that doesn’t mean we are safe. Locals do their best to protect other locals, our misfit band of eccentrics attempting some basic form of civility. But I am a young, attractive female. Walking down the boardwalk after dark alone scares me. I call Paul and let him know I’m on my way home.
“Awesome babe. I’m twenty minutes away. Gonna drop the boys at their place and then I’ll be home. Call me when you get to the house, so I know you’re safe.”
I agree, hanging up my cell, and slip it into the pockets of my sweatshirt, the cash in my pocket burning my skin. Then I grab my food, throw a twenty on the bar, and head into the crowded night, a half-mile from home.
I move quickly through the crowds, my hood up despite the warm night air, ignoring the catcalls from men and the panhandlers who know me yet still stick out their hands. I nod to familiar faces and share words with a few locals. Then the crowds thin and I am on the sparse path that covers the last quarter-mile home. There are still tourists here, ones who didn’t realize that the South Venice parking lot is the wrong place to park, a long walk from the attractions, a much closer lot a quarter-mile north. We all hurry, the night sky unsettling, too many shadows and dark alleys in between the million dollar bungalows that face this oceanfront broken sidewalk.
Then I reach our street, head a block east and jog up the steps to our home, my key out and ready, the deadbolt flipping in the lock as soon as the door is fully shut. I strip off my sweaty pullover and call Paul, letting him know that I am home.
I hear his jeep rumble as I pull two beers from the fridge, popping their tops and carrying them to the coffee table, flipping the dead bolt switch on my way. He bounds up the steps, flinging the door open and crossing our living room in four easy steps, pulling me into his arms and taking my mouth. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist and he catches me, his hands strong on my ass, his mouth desperate on mine, like he has been away a month instead of a day. He carries me to the couch and tosses me down, the worn leather soft against my back, his mouth following my descent before softly releasing me. His eyes linger on me, a smile on his face before he wheels around and shuts the door.
We eat on the couch, sharing the sandwich, juice running down my wrists as I try to bite into the overfull sandwich. I get up twice for napkins and more beer, our conversation dancing over, but not touching, my activities last night. Paul prefers to not discuss the existence of Stewart. While Stewart approaches their shared split of my time as he would a business merger, coolly and unemotionally—it is much harder for Paul. I have all of Paul’s heart—surfing and his career taking a backseat to me, to my happiness. I’m sure he struggles with that—having half of me while giving me all of him. But I was with Stewart first, gave him that half of my heart before Paul ever came into the picture. Paul was just sex to me, a warm body to f**k my body and occupy my days while Stewart worked. But somewhere, over a year ago, Paul took the other half of my heart and I fell for him as well. I know it bothers Paul. I know that he is competitive and possessive and wants me to be only his. But he will not give me up over that desire, so he doesn’t fight it. He goes with the flow, and only asks for my happiness.
We eat, we watch tv, and then fuck—starting in the shower and taking the activity to our bed. Then we spoon, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep.
DANA
The definition of a secret is something not meant to be known by others.
What do you do when you discover a secret? Do you have a responsibility to share it? Or is the responsibility in the keeping of the secret?
I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So I will watch. And try to find out as much as I can about this woman. And why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.
I don’t know if she loves them or if toying with them. The chances of both of us loving them are too slim, too incredible to be a coincidence. What I don’t understand is why. Why these two men?
With the millions of men in Los Angeles, why date brothers?
MADISON
I watch Stewart sleep, the rise and fall of his strong chest. He is so rarely still, so rarely calm. Intensity is his standard; peace is a rare moment for me to view. At a time like this, when his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, I feel protective of him. As if I have some responsibility for his world, for his happiness, for his life. I love him, there has not been a question of that for some time. I fell quickly for this brilliant man—a man who has no time for anything more than bites of time and affection. He will never bounce our child on his knee or take me to the doctor when I am sick. Those are his limitations and he realizes that. Is regretful for that shortcoming but unwilling to change. He has chosen his lifestyle, and accepts the restrictions that come with it. Maybe one day he will change. Maybe one day his brow will relax and he will smile easily, laugh more often, and lose the suit and tie. Maybe he will be able to do more than f**k me senseless and kiss me before leaving me alone to sleep. Maybe he will have a life outside of work, and maybe I will still be around when that time comes. Life is too unpredictable to plan for that. What I do know, as I watch this beautiful man sleep, his face relaxed and body still, is that I love him. Just as much as I love Paul. And that, one day, will be a problem.
10 YEARS EARLIER
The fire burned hot, a wave of heat pushing Jennifer Brand back from the pit, her feet sinking in the thick sand. She tripped, stumbling backward, and was caught by strong arms, her gaze looking up and catching on gorgeous green eyes and a cocky smile.
“Gotcha.”
She blushed, gripping his forearms and pulled herself to solid sand, brushing off her legs. “Thanks.”
“It’s Jen, right?”
“Jennifer.” She hated Jen, hated the childish lilt of the name.
“Cool. Having fun?”
She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes drawn to his body, to the ripped six-pack he proudly displayed.
“We were actually about to jet. Head to a house party over in Summerset. You seem pretty cool... would you want to come?” He flashed a smile that any warm-blooded teen would be crazy to resist, a grin that displayed his dimples to perfection, his white teeth flashing at her in the dark.
Yes, I would love to come. I would love to do anything your perfect self deems necessary. She hesitated. “I’ve got to ask my brother, I came here with him.”
He stiffened slightly. “Really? Who?”
“Paul Brand.”
He stepped back a pace, surprise on his face. “Really? You’re Paul’s little sister?”
Nodding, she blushed at the impressed look he shot her. “Yeah.” It’s my birthday... so he brought me along.”
