For A Goode Time Call... Page 7

  I pushed out the door and all but ran, my bare feet slapping on the pavement.

  I ached for long hours after that.

  Cassie

  I watched his broad back recede into the shadows. His ponytail swayed at his back, and the huge bag of laundry seemed like no more of a burden than if he’d been carrying a single pillow. Yet that bag had been larger than me and heavier.

  God, he was strong.

  He’d picked me up and literally physically set me aside, and I don’t think it had required any effort whatsoever.

  I stood at the door watching the sidewalk where he’d vanished for a long time, wondering.

  Why had he left?

  It had seemed, for a moment, as if he’d been about to kiss me.

  His eyes had raked over my face, caught on my lips, stared at them. I’d felt his eyes on my body, and I couldn’t bring myself to regret having dressed so skimpily. I wasn’t overly modest anyway—as a dancer, I’d performed in this or something like it countless times. Practiced in it, sweated and been lifted and videotaped in outfits like this.

  So why did it feel different with Ink? Why did I feel more naked? With anyone else I wouldn’t think twice. I was comfortable in my dance shorts and midriff tank top, and often went without a bra late at night when I was not planning on being around people, or moving around that much. It wasn’t a big deal, really. But with Ink, it just felt different. I felt exposed.

  I felt…sensual.

  And that was truly different. I am a physical person, a sexual person, a visceral person. But not a sensual one. Big difference. Ink made me feel intensely sensual, in that moment he was looking down at me like…

  Like he wanted to devour me.

  Has anyone looked at me like that, ever?

  Did Rick ever look at me like that? Like if he didn’t get to touch me and kiss me and do wild and dirty things with me he would just die.

  Rick had looked at me like he owned me, like he deserved me, like I was his. But not ever with such violent burning desperation, the way Ink just did.

  And then Ink had just…walked away.

  As if he couldn’t wait to escape me.

  The washer buzzed, and I went to switch my laundry over, still turning the last half an hour over in my head.

  I was attracted to him, I realized. It seemed like a weird thing to have to realize, but there it was. He was drastically different than Rick—the polar opposite, in fact. In every way.

  Yet I was more than just physically attracted to Ink. There was a lot to him. His presence was soothing and exciting at the same time. His size was intimidating and scary and thrilling and intense…and comforting. I had never in my life felt as safe as I did around Ink. Or as at risk, because he sees me. Knows me, despite not knowing a whole lot about me. I’ve told him things I’ve not really talked about even with Mom.

  So, wait. Was I imagining him wanting me? Was I seeing something that’s not there because I was lonely and sad and upset and lost and—

  And fucking horny as hell.

  God, so horny.

  But was I using all that to see something that’s not there?

  I didn’ think I was. I think he felt it—felt a connection, something hot and sizzling between us.

  And then he walked away. Picked me up, set me aside, and walked away.

  But there was a whole boiling shitload of conflict going on as he did so, which made me think he has some hang-ups of his own. He seemed so self-contained, so confident, so at ease in his skin and with who he was, which made it hard to imagine what he could be insecure about. I needed to know.

  And, if I was going to be honest with myself, the look in his eyes, the burning desire that was so blatantly obvious…? It made me crazy. I wanted him to act on it. I wanted him to show me what it would feel like for him to let that loose. I mean, god what a feeling that must be. To have a man that powerful, that strong just…take me?

  Yes, please.

  Rick…I knew I had to stop thinking about him, but it was impossible not to compare them. Rick was my only truly serious relationship. I had a boyfriend in high school, my first kiss, my first trip to second base, and the boy to whom I’d given my virginity. We’d dated from sophomore year through me leaving for Julliard, and I’d known all the time that it would end upon graduation. He’d known it too, because he had his own plans—Stanford for a double major in computer science and business, and then intern at a dot-com in Silicon Valley for some experience, and then strike out to create his own startup dot-com, in the biotech field. Last I’d checked, William had done everything he’d planned on doing, and his startup was doing great. We’d been good together, William and me. It had been fun, exciting. We’d known all along it was a relationship with a finite term, and so we’d set out to extract the most amount of fun and enjoyment from our time together as possible.

  As horny teenagers with busy parents, we’d had plenty of time and opportunity to explore and indulge our sexual curiosity, and that had been quite a wild time of learning myself and my body and my desires. And what I’d learned, more than anything, is that I just rev at a higher level than most. I think that’s true of all of us Goodes. I know Lexie, more than any of us, has a libido that runs hot enough that she would probably call it an affliction. Charlie and I have talked at length about our struggles to find a partner who gets us, who satisfies us, who can keep up with us.

  For my part, I’ve yet to find that. William came closest, I think. But that’s only because I was a young adult, at best, a girl just finding herself and just beginning to understand my body and what I wanted, and how to ask for it. I would say I’m a pretty sexually liberated woman—I regularly and enthusiastically take care of myself, and when I’m with a man I have no qualms about asking for what I want and indicating what I like and don’t. I just also know that most men don’t have the stamina or patience to truly stay with me, to satisfy me to the point that I’d really truly feel well matched. I enjoy myself when I’m with a partner, no doubt about that—but I’m often left feeling like, once he’s gone, that I need to find a few minutes to handle some unfinished business.

  And I don’t mean that as a complaint or insult or anything negative about the men I’ve been with. I’m just…I need more, want more, I’m ready for more sooner. I want things crazier, hotter, wilder. I’m not an exhibitionist, don’t have any interest in being public about things. I just want a lot. And none of the men I’ve slept with so far have really met my deepest, strongest needs.

  In a way, sexually speaking, Rick was honestly was my least satisfying partner. He was selfish. Well-endowed, had stamina, plenty of drive. But just didn’t seem to think much about what I was feeling, especially once he was close to his own climax. If I wanted him to do something, and I asked, he would, and knew what he was doing, but…I don’t know. I guess some part of me wanted him to put my needs first, at some point. To think about my desires as much as he thought about getting himself to his enjoyment. He took me, sexually, as his right, as his toy to get himself off. And unless I clearly expressed what I wanted, he wouldn’t think about it.

  God, now that I think about it objectively, Rick was an asshole.

  And I stayed him with for…four years, nearly. I’d met him at Julliard, and we’d been hired at the troupe together, and the whole time, I don’t think I’d ever once been totally and fully sexually satisfied. What about emotionally?

  Nope.

  He’d been aloof, hard to communicate with, selfish. Spent more time with friends from the company than with me.

  A thought occurred to me, then.

  A horrifying thought which, if true, would probably just flat out wreck me the rest of the way.

  I scrambled for my phone so fast I dropped it, but thankfully I kept a rubber case on it because I was always dropping it. I didn’t even think about what time it was, I just dialed.

  It rang half a dozen times.

  “Huh—hello?” A muzzy female voice. A pause. “Cass. It’s…it’
s seven in the morning on a Saturday. What the hell?”

  “Sorry, Charlie—if it makes you feel any better, it’s three a.m. here.” I swallowed hard. “Do you think Rick is gay?”

  A long, long, weird pause. “Cass. Babe. You dumb sweet bitch. Yes, he’s gay.”

  “You’re mean when you get woken up,” I muttered. “You say that like it should be obvious.”

  She groaned, and I heard a faint click in the background as she turned on a light. “Cassie, sweetie, chicken dumpling, my lovey-dove.”

  Oh boy. The idiotic terms of endearment—that’s when you knew Charlie was about to unload both barrels, usually something she had probably been harboring and keeping to herself until directly asked about. Like now.

  “Rick is gayer than a gay pride festival.” She sounded…almost like she was holding back laughter. “I thought you knew.”

  “No, I didn’t fucking know!”

  “Well how the hell am I supposed to know what you know? It didn’t seem to me like he ever tried to hide it. He wears the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on a male who wasn’t in tights on stage in a ballet. He’s a fantastic dresser, and not just because his family is richer than god. He doesn’t have the flamboyant lisp or anything—like, he doesn’t talk like Jonathan from Queer Eye, but he’s most definitely gay.”

  “We had sex at least once a week for four years.”

  “So maybe he’s bi, or still figuring it out.”

  “You think he was…do you think he was sleeping with men while he was with me?”

  A really difficult pause, then. “I…I don’t know.”

  “Charlie.”

  “I don’t! I don’t know anything for sure. I suspect he was, yes.” A sigh. “I never liked him. And not because he’s gay…I couldn’t care less about that. I just don’t think he’s a good person. He’s a dick, an arrogant, selfish jackass, and he treated you like shit. I never understood why you were with him. You called me at least once a month complaining that he left you unsatisfied in bed. I thought that was…like, duh. I always assumed you knew he was either bi or curious or something. I mean, he’s an incredible dancer, no doubt about that. And I’m not saying, like, that he can’t be straight because he’s a professional dancer. I just…he’s just not straight. Not all the way, at least. And I really thought you knew, and I figured it wasn’t my business. I told you straight up more than once that I didn’t like him, and didn’t like him for you, and that I thought you could do better. Again, I want to be clear, this is not because he’s not straight. If you want to date a guy who’s into dudes too, cool. Your business. I didn’t like him as a person and didn’t like him as your boyfriend because he’s a piece of shit person and you deserved way better than him, whether he’s into men, women, both, or kittens. I don’t care. You just deserve a man who cares about you, who takes care of you, who puts you first. And he didn’t do that.”

  I sniffled. “I’m gonna call him.”

  “Cassandra.”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Why? What are you going to get out of that?”

  “It’s over anyway, but I have to know.” I wiped at my nose, swallowing hard. Hating the sting in my eyes. I shouldn’t still be able to be hurt by Rick, yet there’s the ache in my chest, a heaviness, an anger. At myself, and at him.

  “Okay, but leave me on the line.”

  “You can’t make a sound, though.”

  “I won’t.”

  I added the call, hoping he hadn’t changed his cell phone number. I looked at the screen, watching until it went from “calling” to counting the duration of the call. It rang, once, twice, three times.

  “Salut, Cassie.” That voice, not quite French-accented, and smooth as French chocolate. “What is it?”

  “I…I need you to answer a question for me, Rick.”

  “I am going by Richard, now.” He gave it a distinct French pronunciation—REE-shar.

  “Great, good to know.”

  He sighed. “What is your question, m’belle?” A stammer. “I—Sorry. Old habits, you know.”

  He was suddenly really leaning into his French heritage. He’d always tried to balance it, to not sound too French or too American, but a suave balance of both. Not anymore.

  “Are you gay?”

  He laughed, a bark of amusement. “You know, that’s a question I have been asking myself a lot lately.”

  “Rick, come on. It’s three in the morning where I am, and I just need an answer. Were you sleeping with men while we were together?”

  A tense pause. “To say ‘sleeping with’ is a very broad thing, cherie.”

  “Quit with the affectation, Rick. This is me, okay?”

  A sigh, and he dropped the accent. “It’s not an affectation, I’ll have you know. I’m half French and I’ve lived more than half my life here. But whatever makes you feel better.”

  “What will make me feel better is to know you weren’t messing around with guys while we were dating. Maybe you were confused or figuring it out—I could accept that. But if you were lying and deceiving me…” I sighed bitterly. “Whatever the case, just give me the straight truth.”

  “I was experimenting, yes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You really want to know what I was doing, play by play?” His voice was sharp, arrogant. “I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you want to know.”

  “If you’d just told me—”

  “I was embarrassed, Cassie. And I really was attracted to you. I really did care for you. I wasn’t lying about that. You weren’t a beard or anything.”

  “Embarrassed? We lived and worked with…what, eight other gay men? You were embarrassed? They’d have accepted you in a heartbeat. The girls too. Everyone.”

  “It’s complicated,” he snapped.

  “Then simplify it.”

  “You and me, we started out as friends. I wasn’t sure what I was, then. I knew I had feelings for men, but I also really liked you. Things just sort of happened between us, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with you after a while. What was I supposed to do, sit you down six months into our relationship and be like, ‘hey, by the way, I know we’re dating and all, but I think I may also like men?’”

  “Yes, that would have worked just fine for me.”

  “You’re delusional. You were in love with me. I didn’t want to hurt you, and I wasn’t sure if I was bi, or if I was lying to myself about being in love with you, or if I loved you emotionally but wasn’t in love with you. It was confusing. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

  “So you just kept dating me, but went off and screwed around with men on the side, without telling me?”

  “I wasn’t screwing around. I was figuring myself out.”

  “Well you should have had the decency to break up with me, or at least tell me what was going on. Not just let me keep thinking we were in love.” I sniffled, working hard to hold back the real breakdown I knew was coming.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, Cassandra.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped my eyes. “So is that why you dumped me after the accident?”

  “It was a lot of things, really. The accident just…shook me up. I should have died, almost did. I should have permanent brain damage, like, be a vegetable. But I don’t, I’m not. I’m alive. But I’m a mess. My emotions are all over the place. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if I’m going to go back to dancing. I don’t know what I want to do. I woke up from a coma, which I was in for three weeks. You know what it’s like to lose three weeks of your life? I know, it could have been longer. I’m lucky to have woken up from it at all. And yes, it made me realize I’d been stringing you along, playing games with you, being unfair to you.” A long silence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “I forgive you.” I sighed.

  “What brought this on? Why call me about this now, months later, at three in the morning?”

  I groaned. “It’s complicated.”

  “S
implify it.” He laughed, a good-natured chuckle. “I do know you better than just about anyone, in some ways. I bet I can guess.”

  I laughed. “Okay, go for it.”

  “You’re trying to get over everything. You’re still healing because your leg is all fucked up, right? You can’t dance, or not anytime soon. I broke up with you, and now you’re obsessively going over everything in your head. And you were thinking through our relationship, wondering where you went wrong.”

  Wow. I mean, just wow. The arrogance in that statement was breathtaking.

  “No, actually, Richard.” I used his fancy new French pronunciation. “I was realizing how unsatisfied I was sexually the entire time I was with you. Like, trying to figure out why I was ever with you in the first place. You never made me come, you know that? Never. Not once. Most of the time, like ninety-nine point…like…five percent of the time we had sex, I waited until you were asleep, and then I finished myself off.”

  I sighed, then continued. “So no, I wasn’t wondering where I went wrong, I was wondering what I missed, like, why was I so unsatisfied with you? I know I have a really powerful libido, but even taking that into consideration, our sex life was really kind of…pathetic. And I couldn’t figure out why. Then, it hit me. You just weren’t interested in me. You didn’t want me. It wasn’t me, like at all. I wasn’t the problem. You just didn’t want me. And listen, I know men have different tastes in women, okay? Like, I know some guys may not be into a girl who looks like me, short and thin, small boobs and butt, super athletic. But I’m horny. Like, all the fucking time. I was after you, all…the…time. Most guys I know would give their literal left nut to be with a girl like me, even if I’m not his preferred physical type. I also know, types aside, I’m pretty. So, your lack of interest, in all probability, wasn’t because of anything to do with me, but with you. If it was you, then what possible reason could there be for you to not be sexually interested in a horny, attractive woman who was in love with you?”