Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, November 28th, 2017 ▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
Even though Mike's feeding me pieces of delicious sushi is an experience I'm putting away into my spank bank, I shouldn't have told him I burned the pizza.
"T's it," I say when he dips another piece into the soy sauce. "I'm full."
"One more, and we can get to relaxing." His fingers found every excuse possible to touch my lips during this process. We haven't kissed, but my skin got what it was asking for. I might be able to recognize his fingerprints because I'm covered in their invisible web.
"I don't want any more food." I move my face away. "I didn't know that 'relaxing' is now a code word."
He pops the nigiri into his mouth and licks his lips. I want to lick his lips. I want those lips to be on mine. "For?"
"Sex," I say. He has to be thinking about it. I've been thinking about it. I'm not the only one making the tension crackle.
His high-voltage smile back on, Mike sucks his soy-sauce-covered fingers in slow-motion. "Who said anything about sex?"
I'll make him regret teasing me.
I grab his hand and bring it over to my lips. It's my turn. I suck his fingers and finally get the reaction I'm after. His breath picks up. He's not missing a single second of my performance. His gaze is glued to my mouth. He doesn't pull away his hand. I'm on the right track. The one that's leading to sex. Sex with Mike. My magic Mike.
I close the gap between us, and my sticky fishy lips touch his. Sushi breath may not be the best for kissing, but my toothbrush is packed up, and our clock is running out. I undo the top three buttons on his shirt. Mikes wakes up from his stupor, and my movements are no longer fast enough for him.
He pulls his shirt off over his head and does the same with my sweater. Thankfully he left his boots in the entry way. I hop on one leg, then the other getting my leggings and panties off, my eyes on Mike's fingers unzipping the fly on his jeans, grabbing a condom out of its pocket and putting it between his teeth, then pulling the jeans, boxer-briefs, and socks off. I missed this sight of him. The two piles our clothes blend in with the rest of the mess on the floor.
We are like the two tines of a tuning fork, vibrating to the same frequency. Mike takes one long stride, lifts me into his arms, and carries me into my bedroom. My bed is nothing more than a bare mattress, but I don't care. It's a surface we can use, and as our bodies join, slide, grind and ache in ecstasy, the 'where' disappears, consumed by the urgency of 'who' and 'what'. My brain's sole focus is on Mike. I latch on to his lips, breathing through him, feeling through him, living through him. It's spectacular. I don't know how I've existed without it.
"Fuck," says Mike. I'm getting used to his limited but high-frequency cursing vocabulary.
I curl around his furnace of a body and close my eyes for a second, depleted, and content. His chest hair tickles my cheek, and I'm glad I know what every inch of his body looks and feels like. I've filled up my memory bank with images of Mike, and if I can't have the real thing, I'll at least have those to indulge in.
"We have to go." I squint at the alarm clock next to me that confirms we should've already been in the car. We retrace our steps into the living room, get dressed, like someone hit rewind, and I wince when I pick my backpack up with my injured hand. No time for dealing with that now.
"Grab the keyboard"-I point to the long black case in the doorway-"and this pink suitcase. I'll grab the other one." I give the apartment the last once-over. Am and Mom will have to deal with the wreckage.
Mike loads my stuff into a gray, not-new minivan: the momsmobile of all momsmobiles. The contrast between Mike-with his precision-cut hair, black biker's boots, stylish jeans, in-your-face leather jacket-and the drab minivan is jarring.
"Why are you driving this?" I'm not judging him. Well, I am judging him a little bit, because what twenty-five-year-old drives a minivan?
Hairs rise at the back of my neck. I don't actually know how old he is. Maybe he's thirty with two kids and a wife, then the minivan makes total sense. I glance into the car, looking for kid crap and car seats, but it's neat, some fast-food wrappers are in the trashcan between the passengers' seats. The car smells of cold fries and sweet car deodorant. The console between the driver's and the passenger's seats holds sparkly sunglasses and a nail file.
"I had to borrow Mom's car. I couldn't take you and your luggage to the airport on Beauty."
"Uhh, so many questions," I say as Mike starts the minivan.
"Shoot."
"Beauty?"
"My bike, my brother Louka named it. Beauty and the Beast. I'm the Beast."
Mike's the beautiful one. There must be a story there.
"So, you have a younger brother Louka, and a mom who lives close enough for you to borrow her minivan."
"Well." He clears his throat, glances at me before taking a left onto the road. "I live with Mom. In the same house. We rent it, and I contribute every pay period. I'm not mooching off my family if that's what you think. I've been working since I was fourteen. I-"
"How old are you?" I should've asked that two days ago before I jumped into bed with him. Any normal person would've, not that I'm normal, or ever been normal, but this is backwards, even for me.
"Twenty-four. You?"
"Twenty-three."
"Phew," we say at the same time. We laugh. I'm not a homewrecker who slept with a married man. I better clarify.
"So, just to be sure: it's your brother, your mom, and your dad who you live with-no girlfriend, wife, significant other?"
"Well." Mike stalls for a second, and panic rises in my chest. What did I get myself into? That should've been a straightforward 'no'.
"There's a wife or a girlfriend?" My chest pinches as my panic gets worse.
"Fuck, no, Angie, no, it's not that. It's just Mom, Louka, and I. My dad, he's not with us."
"Oh." Now I feel like a complete jerk. "So sorry for your loss. Am's dad died earlier this year. He was my mentor and he was amazing. I can't imagine losing a father at such a young-"
"No, it's not that. He's not dead." Mike snaps back and tightens his lips. "It's just. . .I don't like talking about him."
"Oh." I wait for him to continue, but he stares straight ahead, his clenched jaw screaming the conversation is over.
Mike's outer shell portrays strength: a picture of success, someone who has his shit together, in charge of his destiny. Getting a glimpse under the hood of that perfection, to the angry boy who is mad at this father, makes me want him even more.
I'm afraid of perfection in people. I search for broken corners, chipped polish, cracks, and scratches in everyone's personalities. I don't trust anyone who doesn't display those, because we're all broken, but only a few are strong enough to be vulnerable and show the world our pieces.
