A Sexy Journey Read online

  I told George everything. I wasn't sure why I kept pouring out my life's story to perfect strangers, but they all seemed interested and genuinely kind, and I couldn't stop myself. No one had ever really listened to me before, I realized.

  "What you need," George said, "is an adventure. You need to go far away, and meet a man, and let him sweep you off your feet. Don't fall in love, though. Just let him make sweet love to you until you can't breathe. And then go somewhere else, and do it all over again."

  Jose came in at that moment. "Don't confuse the poor dear," he said. "What she needs is a good fucking."

  I blushed from my hairline to my toes.

  " Jose, you rascal," George scolded, "can't you see you're upsetting her? She's not ready for that yet."

  "I'm not upset," I said. "I'm just...not used to that kind of thing."

  "Well that much is obvious." Geoge patted my knee, and then helped me stand up, escorting me to the sink once more. "Just take it one day, one step at a time. Trust your instincts, that's the first thing."

  My hair was washed again, and dried, and then Julia spent a few minutes styling it before they brushed my shoulders off and unsnapped the apron.

  "Close your eyes," George instructed.

  I squeezed them shut, felt hands remove the apron from my shoulders and brush a few more bits of hair away.

  "Are you ready to see the new Delilah Flores?" George asked. I nodded. "Well then, open your eyes."

  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. As promised, I didn't recognize myself. My hair had been waist length, wavy, plain brown, and not-quite glossy. Now it was pixie-short, above my ears, and bright, bottle-red, somewhere between crimson and maroon. It turned my features from seeming pretty enough but plain into...exotic and striking. My cerulean eyes stood out even more, and my porcelain skin seemed even whiter, even fairer.

  My breath caught, and my eyes burned, even though I'd cried more tears than I'd thought one person could in one day.

  "Well, sweetie? What do you think?" George asked.

  I laughed and hiccupped. "I think I need a hug." I ran my fingers through my hair, a now alien sensation. "It's wonderful. I don't know what to say, what to think. It's...incredible. I don't know who I am."

  "You're the new you," Jose said.

  George gave him a disgusted look. "That has got to be one of the most idiotic things you've ever said, Jose."

  I stood up and hugged Jose. "No, it's not. It makes perfect sense."

  I found myself held close by all three of them, and the feeling of being embraced was enough to choke me up even more.

  We broke apart, and Julia pushed me to the door. "Now go on. You have more makeover to do and I have appointments to keep." I pulled my wallet from my purse, but Julia stopped me. "No, honey. This one's on the house."

  She handed me a business card. "This is my cousin. He's one of the top divorce attorneys in the city. I'll set up a meeting for you. He'll give you a good rate. Don't back down, okay?"

  "Thanks, Julia." I hugged her again and followed Jose and George out the door.

  They took me to Sephora and picked out a whole new array of makeup for me, giving me dizzying instructions on the proper use and application, only half of which I followed, not being big on makeup. Then they took me to Waterplace Tower Mall and the real fun began.

  I don't know how long we spent there, browsing every woman's clothing store in the entire mall, sweeping through from front to back, examing every item on every rack. When I explained I wasn't concerned with a budget, their eyes lit up and they began pulling items like it was Christmas. They held blouses and skirts and wraps up to me, conferred in loud whispers about my "assets" and had me try on a thousand different outfits, pulling me out of the changing room with constant exhortation and encouragement.

  When they first started yanking everything within three sizes off the racks, I'd wondered if maybe I should have set a limit, but I soon realized they really did know what they were doing and how to do it. For every six items I tried on, only one or two would make the cut, the rest being ruthlessly but gently put aside as "not what we're going for."

  When we finished, as the mall was closing, I had spent almost four thousand dollars, but I had a whole new wardrobe of sleek, sexy items, designed to be interchangeable. We went back to my hotel room and I received lengthy discourse in fashion and accessorization, makeup application, and the importance of self-esteem.

  Eventually, they dressed me in a knee length skirt, a sleeveless, low-cut blouse with a shrug over it, a tasteful necklace, low-heeled pumps, and tiny clutch purse with little more than some cash, my cell phone, and my wallet. I'd put the bulk of my money in the hotel safe, simply because it was too frightening to carry twenty thousand dollars on my person everywhere I went.

  "Well, sweetie," George said, "you are officially made-over. How do you feel?"

  "Better. On my way to being a new Delilah."

  "Do you feel beautiful?" Jose asked.

  I tipped my head from side to side. "Getting there. It will take time."

  "Sure it will. But you have to believe it yourself, or no one else will. True beauty and style starts within, darling," George said. "Now, are you ready?"

  I gave him a confused look. "Ready? I thought we were done?"

  George laughed, a merry, belly-shaking chuckle. "To celebrate, of course! You can't get a makeover and not go out to celebrate. We're going to get you drunk and teach you how to catch a man."

  Jose and George knew everyone, it seemed. I mean, literally everyone. They took me to a bar, more of a private club than anything else, really, the kind of place you had to already know about to know about. It was a wild, chaotic party, bustling with beautiful people all dressed to kill, swilling martinis and expensive wine and champagne with names I couldn't pronounce and top-shelf mixed drinks. Everyone was drinking, but no one was drunk. Everyone was paired off in some way, but everyone was checking out everyone else, gay, straight, or otherwise. It was crazy and confusing and exhilarating.

  When I walked in, with Jose on one arm and George on the other, I immediately became the topic of frenzied whispers and excited conversation. I'd never in my life felt so many pairs of eyes scrutinizing me, examining me; not even when I'd lost my temper in the middle of Main Street the day before had I been so completely the center of attention.

  I tugged my shrug closer around me, trying to cover the expanse of skin across my chest. I'd never worn anything so revealing before. I thought if I breathed too deep my nipples would pop out of my top, and I wasn't sure how I was going to sit down without flashing everyone.

  "Why is everyone looking at me?" I whispered.

  George answered. "Number one, because you look fabulous. And number two, because you're with us, and we're fabulous."

  Jose chimed in. "Face it, Delilah. You're a sexy bitch. Get used to it."

  I tried to contain my shock at being called a bitch. Where I came from, calling a woman a bitch was serious business; you just didn't do it unless you really meant it. I squeezed Jose's arm in thanks, because he'd clearly meant it as a compliment.

  Jose and George--for some reason, whenever I thought of the pair, Jose's name always came first--dragged me to a bar and ordered a Tequila Sunrise, and then leaned against the bar, sipping their own drinks. They seemed to be waiting.

  "Shouldn't we, like, mingle or something?" I asked.

  George laughed. "No way, honey. We let them come to us."

  I shrugged and sipped my drink, trying to go slow. I've never been a drinker. My parents weren't teetotalers, they were just heavy into moderation. I'd never in my life had more than three drinks, and that time, with Leah the day I graduated from college, I'd been dizzy and loud and completely not myself. I'd woken up with a pounding head and a vow to never repeat the experience.

  Jose and George had other plans. They engaged me in intelligent, witty conversation, spanning everything from literature, which George was extremely well-versed in, to sports and
politics and fashion. I wasn't aware of finishing my drink, but somehow ended up with a new one, and then we were surrounded by a dozen people and I was talking to a woman with ears pierced all the way from lobe to tip, hair shaved on the sides and long and braided down the center. She was a bartender and a film student, attending Columbia College. Then she vanished and I was being heavily flirted with by a huge, ravishingly handsome black man dressed in ripped jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, showing off his rippling, ink-black biceps.

  The man, whose name was Gerald, seemed to be trying to split me away from the group, edging towards me and gradually stepping into my personal space so that I was forced to back away from the group and the safety of Jose and George. My head was loose on my shoulders, and my thoughts slow. I'd had enough drinks slipped into my hands that I'd lost count, and suddenly I couldn't figure out how to extricate myself from the situation.

  I glanced at George, whom I seemed to have connected with more than Jose. I tried to make "help me" eyes without Gerald noticing. I found Gerald handsome and charming, but his subtle manipulation of my personal space was intimidating, and I knew, in a cerebral and distracted sort of way, that I was in no condition to make any decisions.

  "Delilah, dear, I have to visit the little boys room," George said, appearing beside me with a warm, firm hand around my wrist, "why don't you come with me?"

  He didn't give me a chance to answer, dragging me away from an irritated Gerald. We made it to the bathrooms, and, to my shock, he went into the ladies room with me.

  "George? Aren't you in the wrong, you know, bathroom?"

  George just laughed and slipped into a stall. "Oh, honey. You're so innocent. Women always bring their gays with them into the bathroom. Girl talk, you know." He spoke over the sound of his urination, which made me blush.

  He was such an odd combination. Some things about him were distinctly male, such as his direct, take-charge attitude and willingness to dart in and fix things. But then, after my initial shock, I really didn't feel too oddly about his being in a bathroom with me. Something about him, I wasn't sure what exactly, made my instincts recognize in him a nebulous sort of "one of the girls" factor.

  I was also drunk, which might have had something to do with it. I peed, washed my hands, and fixed my makeup, under George's approving gaze.

  "So Gerald was very...persistent," I said.

  George sighed. "Yes, he is. He's a great guy, in some ways, but totally wrong for you. You did good getting clear of him. I have nothing negative to say about him of course, but he just isn't a good match for your stage in life."

  "He kept pushing me out of the group, but he never touched me. It was weird."

  "That's Gerald for you. He's very adept in social situations. You never notice him doing it, but suddenly he's got you exactly where he wants you: alone and susceptible to his many charms. He's done it to me before. It was fun, but...he's not my type."

  I glanced at George as I put on a new layer of mascara. "You mean you and he..." George just nodded; now I was even more confused. "But he was flirting with me, and I'm a woman."

  "He plays for both teams, sweetie." George seemed amused. "He's an equal opportunist, you might say."

  I tried to digest being interested in men and women, but couldn't quite manage it. I shook my head and dismissed it.

  "You should find someone you like, though," George said into my ear as we reentered the chaotic swirl of people and noise. "Don't go home with him, just...have some fun."

  He led me back to the group by the bar, which had swollen by at least ten since we went to the bathroom. Gerald was nowhere to be seen, and there were a few men who looked, to my inexperienced eyes, to be straight enough to flirt with. But then, so had Gerald.

  Good gravy, this was complicated.

  George found a spot where he could keep an eye on me but still have his own conversations, effectively leaving me to own devices, but still somewhat supervised. I felt like a child on a leash, in a way, but it was comforting knowing I was being looked after. This was a difficult, confusing world I'd found myself in, and I was glad for someone to guide me through it.

  I made small talk with a few people until I found myself chatting with a tall, gorgeous man with elegant clothes and an expensive haircut. I'd barely introduced myself when George sidled up to me.

  "Honey, I haven't introduced you to Leon, have I?" George made a formal introduction. "Delilah Flores, this is Leon de Luca, a very good friend. Leon, this is Delilah. She's new in town."

  Leon shook my hand, holding my fingers loosely, almost limply. I wondered, then, if George was steering me away subtly. Leon and George and I made idle conversation, until Leon made his exit and George rounded on me with an exasperated expression.

  "Delilah, dear, have you no gaydar at all?" He asked in a harsh whisper.

  "I guess not."

  George laughed again, lighter now. "Well that much is obvious." He glanced around the room, and then pointed out a man with nice enough clothes and hair, but not the sophisticated elegance Leon had displayed. "See him? Is he gay or straight?"

  I studied him. "Straight?"

  George rolled his eyes. "No, honey. He's gayer than I am."

  "There's different levels of gay?"

  George burst into hysterical laughter, wiping his eyes with a prim finger. "Oh, god, honey, you have just no idea, do you? That's actually a fair question, but unimportant at the moment. See the way he's standing? All his weight is on one foot, his other barely touching the floor, with his hip popped out. Look at his arms, too, the way one is folded and he's gesturing while he talks with the other? Also, his clothes. They aren't expensive, but they fit him perfectly, and they're all precisely matched, from shoes to belt to watch. Now, that's not to say straight men can't dress nicely, but it's just not the same."

  George scanned the crowd again, and this time pointed out a different man, taller, harder looking, with looser and more casual clothes.

  "Now look at him," George said, pointing discreetly with one finger from around his drink. "See the way his clothes are a little big? His jeans don't hug his ass, which is a nice one, by the way. And his nails are cut, but roughly. He's dreamy, but completely straight. Look at his stance. Feet apart, about shoulder width, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his beer."

  I shook my head, amazed at George's eye for detail. "So should I flirt with him?"

  George laughed again. "Honey, you're an adult. You can make your decisions on that. But yes, it's safe to flirt with him. I would, if he played for my team. I mean, god, honey, look at those arms!" He turned to leave, but then leaned close and whispered low in my ear. "If you do talk to him, don't, I repeat, do not say anything about why you came to Chicago. No personal drama. Keep it light and innocent. You're just here on business."

  And with that, George sauntered off, leaving me with a half a drink and a fluttering heart.

  The guy was hot. And now that George had pointed out the differences, I could see how you wouldn't be able to mistake him for anything but a heterosexual. By which I mean, all man. And for the record, his arms were massive.

  I took a deep breath, summoned my courage, and made my way over to him. I had a rush of panic at the last second. What would I say? How did one strike up a conversation with someone you were interested in? My hands were trembling.

  I was about to swerve aside when the man in question glanced at me, did a double take, and turned to face me. His eyes met mine, and I felt my breath catch. His eyes were a brilliant green, like wild grass in sunny field. His face was all angles and hard planes and symmetrical, rugged beauty, shadowed with a stubble of day-old beard. His jaw looked strong enough to break rocks on, and his hand clutching the beer seemed like a paw, big enough to make the beer bottle look tiny and fragile.

  My heart went pitter patter when he pulled his hand out of his pocket and took a long step toward me.

  "Hi, I'm Brad," he said, his voice like a bass drum.

  His hand wrapp
ed around mine, hard and calloused but gentle. He squeezed mine, firm but not crushing. I liked that. Most men either held your hand loosely, or crushed it. This was neither. His eyes locked on to mine, and seemed to twinkle with the promise of humor. Or something else.

  "Delilah," I said, trying not to sound breathy.

  I ignored my temptation to tug the shrug closer, and let him close the distance between us so we were standing just within personal space. His body radiated heat, and he smelled faintly of cologne and a scent I can only describe as clean male sweat.

  "I haven't seen you around before, Delilah," Brad said.

  "That's because I just got into town. I'm here on business." I kept George's warning in mind as I thought of what to say.

  "Oh? What do you do?"

  Not going to panic, not going to panic. No drama, no drama. I harangued myself and hesitated a beat too long. "I'm an editor. Of a newspaper. I'm in Chicago for a...workshop. For editors and journalists."

  Brad nodded, and I realized this was my cue to ask him a question. Again, things were a few beats behind, making it awkward.

  "So, Brad, what--what do you do?"

  "I'm an architect." He seemed to sense my discomfort, and gestured at my now-empty drink. "Get you another?"

  I nodded and followed him to the bar. George caught my eye and gave me an excited double-thumbs up. I made a face that was somewhere between excited and oh-shit. George just rolled his eyes and went back to his conversation with Leon, with whom he seemed to be flirting.

  When we had drinks, mine a vodka tonic, now, Brad leaned close and gave me a relaxed, sexy grin. "So, if this is your first time in Chicago, how'd you end up here?" He waved a finger vaguely, meaning the little club we were in.

  I thought hard, trying to find a way of explaining it that didn't involve getting into my complete makeover, which would then lead to my sudden flight to Chicago, which would lead to Harry, which would lead to me either getting angry or crying or both, which would be bad.

  "Oh, I met them at a salon," I said, hoping I sounded casual.

  Brad looked confused, and I realized what I'd said was a non sequitur.

  "Sorry, I meant Jose and George. I came with Jose and George."

  Brad made an "ah-hah" face. "Gotcha. They're good people."

  "Yeah, they're great."