I'll Be Your Everything Page 24

  Lovely.

  “And I ... just ... go?” I ask.

  He kisses my cheek. “Just ... go.”

  He turns on the camera, and I zip left of the solid yellow line, swerving around pedestrians who don’t know their right from their left. I try to look up as often as I can to capture the Woolworth Building, the Transportation Building, the Manhattan Bridge, and the buildings around Wall Street. I look down to focus on the handlebars, the front tire, my hands—my brown hands! There’s an unspoken sales message there. I look right and left to catch the East River, and I might have gotten a barge or ferry. I look up at the clouds, the sun, and an eternity of blue sky.

  After the first run, Tom stands at the thirty-second mark, I roll the bike back to the pigeon poo, and I take off.

  Thirty times.

  Such is the glamorous life of the wannabe advertising executive.

  I take off the helmet, sweat trickling down my cheeks to my ears. “Your turn.”

  After readjusting the chin strap, we find that our new helmet just barely fits his big head. The first time he rolls by my thirty-second spot, only twenty seconds have elapsed. Show-off. I have to run to where he stops.

  “Try to keep up with me,” he says.

  “Try not to show off then,” I say.

  He kisses me.

  I like Tom. He kisses me at the right moment every time.

  For each of the next twenty-nine runs, I take ten more steps backward while he rides the bike back to the starting point, and somehow this man gets to me in thirty seconds each time, though he’s laboring and huffing on the last couple of runs.

  While Tom does a quick check of what we’ve filmed, I check in with Tia.

  “All quiet,” she tells me. “No calls. It is as if the phone gods are smiling on me.”

  And me.

  “Please let me know what you are doing, Shari,” Tia says.

  My stomach gurgles. “Right now, I’m about to go to lunch with Tom.”

  “You are on a date?” she asks.

  “Something like that. Call me if anything happens. Bye.” I smile at Tom. “How’s it look?”

  “Tiring, especially the last couple,” he says. “I am so out of shape.”

  That would be a no.

  “So where am I taking you to eat?” he asks.

  I take his hand. “Someplace I’ve never been able to afford. You’re buying, right?”

  He nods. “Wherever you want to go.”

  Have I mentioned that I like Tom? I’ll bet I have. I’m already going places with him I’ve never been.

  We go to the River Café, which sits in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. So we don’t leave the bike unguarded—we didn’t think to buy a chain lock—we eat out on the deck, the bridge hovering above us. We share oysters and crab soup while watching seagulls, boats, and, well, life breaking out all around us.

  “How are we going to do the voice-overs?” I ask.

  “I have a studio at my house.”

  La-dee-da. Doesn’t everyone? “You are bound and determined to get me to your house.”

  “Because you’ll love it.”

  I’m sure I will. A single room in his bungalow probably has more square footage than my entire apartment. “We still need ‘wheel shots’ all around town. And a decent digital camera.”

  “And,” he adds, “a nice deep, long pothole to leap.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to find.” My feet dance under me.

  “Are you nervous, Shari?”

  Anything but! I’m excited. I’m doing real work here! “Just happy.”

  He looks into my eyes, and I look right back. “You, um, wanna go look at our footage?”

  Footage. Hmm. Where’s he going with this? The man is insatiable. Of course, so am I.

  “It’ll look better on your TV than on this little screen,” he says.

  My poor couch! My poor table! Do we have enough duct tape to keep the “wall” from falling? Will I even want the “wall” between us anymore?

  Yes, Lord. I’ll put up the “wall.” They were hypothetical questions.

  “As long as you keep your footage to yourself,” I say.

  He pouts. “I’m hurt.”

  “You remember why, right?”

  “I agreed, didn’t I?” he says. “But I’m still hurt, okay? It isn’t easy not doing what I want to do, especially when you asked me to kiss you good night. That was so hard, Shari.”

  And it was hard for me, too. All the more reason for me to make you wait, man. Then it will be special. “Best friends first.”

  He sighs and nods. “Best friends first.” He leans in and takes my hands. “The camera we’ll buy can have other uses, too.”

  How absolutely naughty. “Let’s go get us a camera.”

  Tom smiles. “I know a guy ...”

  Instead of walking and pushing the bike as before, Tom puts me up on the handlebars, my booty just barely hanging on, and we ride. I know there’s an ad that has a picture of us, well, maybe not us exactly, doing this. For three miles to Flushing Avenue, we turn more heads than a hairdresser and a barber combined. And I feel scared, excited, proud, embarrassed, and powerful. Alive. I feel alive, maybe for the first time in my life. I want to let go of the handlebars and fly, but I ain’t crazy.

  I watch my short legs waving in the air, feel Tom’s hands steadying me, hear him humming “I’m So Glad I Found You,” a seriously old R & B song by the O’Jays. I counter by singing Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together”—and I nearly fall off the bike when he sings the high parts along with me!

  This, too, is bliss.

  Okay, it’s more than bliss. This is the absolute junk.

  Tom talks to his “guy” at Supersonic and buys a Panasonic Lumix GH1 camera that has more bells and whistles than a train yard. He also buys four interchangeable lenses, another tripod, a high-end photo printer, two years’ supply of printer ink, a couple hundred sheets of premium 8½ x 11 photo paper, and a huge photographer’s bag to put all but the printer inside.

  All to the tune of $3,900.

  “Your credit card company must love you,” I say.

  “It’s my debit card, Shari.”

  I have trouble processing that. I have a debit card, too, but the most I’ve ever had in my account after paying my bills wouldn’t cover a third of what he’s just spent!

  I ain’t no gold digger, but ... that’s the absolute junk, too.

  “So expensive,” I say.

  “An investment,” he says. “And you’ll pay your half once we’re incorporated.”

  He thinks of everything. “What if I’d rather pay you in other ways?”

  He only smiles.

  I think we’ll be even by the end of the night. My fingers are itching to give this man a back rub. And a front rub. And a side rub ...

  When we leave Supersonic, we both look up. Where’s the sun? We weren’t in the store that long. And then it starts to rain.

  “Call it a day?” I ask.

  “It’s a day,” he says.

  I like Tom. He listens to me.

  When we get back to my apartment, I strip down to some old gym shorts and a T-shirt with holes and rips in all the right places, yet Tom keeps his distance and his sweatshirt on. He sits at the other end of the couch while I pout.

  “I thought we were done working,” I say.

  “This is the fun part,” he says.

  We then watch every Brooklyn Bridge video. We number each one and take notes as we go. Some of Tom’s rides give me motion sickness, and mine come out better because it was sunnier when I rode and I was a whole lot steadier. I can hear myself breathing heavily on the last few runs.

  We compare notes.

  I look at my list. “Numbers four, eight, and fifteen.”

  He looks at his list. “I had four and eight, too. Why not thirty-seven?”

  I flip through my notes. “Your knuckles were especially hairy in that one. I don’t want to bite off of Geico and the cavemen.�
��

  He flips a few pages back in his notebook. “Fifteen? You were huffing and puffing.”

  “It adds realism.”

  He sighs. “Well, we agree on four and eight. We’ll make the final decision once I get time to play with it at the studio.” He pops in the Yankee Stadium DVD. “Let’s look at these the same way.”

  After watching them and taking rapid notes—fifteen seconds goes by in a flash!—I star only one of the segments. “To be honest, only twenty-four is worth using,” I say.

  “Same here,” he says, but he’s studying a blank page!

  “You didn’t take any notes, man.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s no use, Shari. You were right about the others. So I says to myself, I says, ‘What’s the point in arguing with Shari? She’s always right.’” Tom could never be a gangster. “That’s what I says to myself.”

  “And I want you to keep that in mind at all times.”

  “I will.” He stands and stretches. “Let’s go to the bedroom and listen to the sounds we collected.”

  “Um, that might affect your focus, Mr. Sexton.” And mine. And then we’ll have to put up the “wall” again.

  I hear his back crack.

  Oh. “My couch is pretty uncomfortable, huh?”

  He nods. “It was built for small people.”

  “Whatever.”

  He smiles. “Small sexy people.”

  That’s better.

  We go into my bedroom, and he somehow hooks the camera to my little shelf stereo. I lift up the “wall,” and he sighs.

  Yeah, big boy, you and me both.

  After he uses thumbtacks and some duct tape, we lie on the bed, and for half an hour, we listen, booty-to-booty, the “wall” between us, to thirty-second bursts of sound.

  “You first,” he says.

  “Nah,” I say. “You first.”

  “Um, eleven, nineteen, and forty-nine.”

  I look at my list. Did I number wrong? “There wasn’t a forty-nine.”

  “There will be.” He reaches under the curtain and pulls up the back of my shirt. “I need to touch you, Shari, and you need a back rub. Number forty-nine will capture the sounds you’re about to make.”

  I try to stay focused and slide away from his hands. “Eleven is on my list, too. Eleven it is.”

  He reaches even farther and somehow latches on to the elastic on the back of my gym shorts. “When did you first wear these?”

  Let’s see. Sophomore year. “Twelve years ago.” I try to pull away, but it’s a feeble attempt. I wave his hand away, but he holds on.

  “I can’t see very well,” he says, “but did you have that booty twelve years ago?”

  So fresh! “No.”

  I see a sweatshirt fly over my head, feel my shirt rising up my back, and soon feel one seriously smoking hot hand working me to distraction.

  I, um, I have to put my glasses on the nightstand. I don’t want them to, um, get damaged should I lose my mind.

  I wrap my arms around a pillow. “Does this mean we’re done for the day, boss?”

  “We’re only just beginning, and don’t call me boss.”

  “You’re the boss, boss,” I say.

  He taps my booty.

  “Careful,” I say. “I bite.”

  “So do I.”

  I like Tom. He says the nicest things.

  “Um, Shari?”

  “Yes, Tom?”

  His hand disappears, the bed bounces, and in a moment Tom is on my side of the bed. “I promise to behave,” he says. “I can’t give you a proper back rub with one hand. Shari, you need some lotion. I could play tic-tac-toe on that back.”

  I point to my dresser. Whoo. I’m about to get waxed. “But only if you behave.” Not so sure about me.

  He stands beside the bed and warms up the lotion first. He starts at the back of my neck, that little small space that has to be one of the best yet most neglected erogenous zones on my body. Even though I pant quietly, I know my nipples are puncturing my pillowcase. He shapes and digs into my shoulders. That earns a groan. He makes big circles, little circles, in-between circles, and lots of straight lines on my back, working his way down to my booty. And when he gets to the small of my back and really cranks it up, I cry out, but not in pain.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. The things he’s doing to the parts of my body that he has yet to touch is driving me crazy. I shouldn’t have worn such tight shorts! I might actually chafe!

  He pops up my waistband again, and he is silent for several delicious moments.

  I turn slightly and see him staring hard at my booty. “What are you doing?”

  “Worshiping. Having a moment of silence. Taking a mental picture I hope never fades.”

  “How long do you need?” I ask. Please take a long time.

  “A lifetime.”

  I like Tom. He always gives me more than I ask for.

  “Um, does your booty need massaging?” he asks.

  Does Peaches need Herb? Does Ashford need Simpson? Does Kid need Play? I answer by wiggling my booty.

  Don’t worry, Lord. I’m keeping my drawers on.

  Instead of massaging my booty through my shorts, he worms his hands up my thighs and under my panties until all I feel is tight drawers in front and man hands in back. He does some serious damage to my booty, and in less than two minutes, I make this sound.

  It’s a sound I’ve never made before.

  It’s not in any language I’ve ever heard, nor can I even spell it.

  It emanates from my toes, travels up to my booty, and explodes out of my mouth at about a hundred and fifty decibels.

  I just know it had lots of Z’s and S’s in it, ending in a series of O’s and a delightful mmm... .

  Chapter 25

  That was intense.

  haven’t had an orgasm in ... I can’t remember. And we haven’t even gotten busy yet!

  After he removes his hands from my grateful booty, I sweep my shirt back down, sit up, and scoot against the headboard, catching my breath. I quickly yank the covers up to my stomach.

  “You’re, um, we’re ...” I stop. “Tom, that was ... that was completely unexpected.”

  He nods. “Can I say what I’m thinking?”

  “No.”

  He drops his eyes. “It isn’t anything bad.”

  “Okay. What are you thinking?”

  “That never happened to me before either.” He frowns at his crotch. “I may have to do some laundry soon.”

  I widen my eyes. “You, too?”

  He nods. “It’s like I’m in high school or something.” He blushes. “I feel pretty stupid.”

  Well, well, well. I turned him on without turning over. And he—wow!—he did the same to me. I stretch my neck side to side. “That was definitely a tension breaker.”

  “Yeah.”

  I lock eyes with him, and he doesn’t look away. I will never find another man like him. I need to make all this permanent somehow, and although we’re both kind of embarrassed, this might be the best time.

  “What exactly are we doing here, Tom?” I ask.

  He starts to move closer, but I shake my head.

  He stops. “We’re enjoying each other’s company, Shari. Very much, I might add. We’re becoming friends.”

  “You know what I mean. Are we ...” I have to be out of my mind to ask this so soon! “Is this a lifetime thing, Tom?”

  “What do you want it to be?” he asks.

  That’s not how that question is supposed to work. “You don’t want to answer till I do, is that it?”

  “I want what you want.”

  That’s still not an answer. I must test him. “So if I say ... ring, wedding, marriage, child ...”

  He smiles, his shoulders relaxing. “I’d say rings—I want one, too. Um, rings, elope to Jamaica, passionate marriage, and children.”

  Elope? Children? “No wedding?”

  “I have no one to invite. Come to de island
s, mon.”

  I burned so many bridges at home that I might not have anyone show up either. “What if I want a wedding?”

  “Do you?”

  Not really. I shrug. “I suppose it’s negotiable.” Hmm. He said children, as in more than one. “How many kids?”

  “Two.”

  Reasonable. “A boy and a girl?”

  “Two girls,” he says. “I want to be outnumbered, outvoted, and controlled by women for the rest of my natural life.”

  I must possess this man. “You are a very wise man.” I open my arms to him, and he slides in behind me instead. I rest my head on his chest, and he wraps his arms around me.

  “Well, Mr. Sexton,” I say as coyly as I can. “This is sounding right serious, I mean, I hardly even know you, sweetie.”

  “There were some times these last few days when I thought I had known you all my life,” he says.

  Wow. I don’t know what to say to that.

  “You’re the mystery girl I’ve had in my dreams since I was sixteen, only I could never see your face,” he says. “And now that I’ve seen you up close, I know I won’t ever have to dream about my mystery girl again.” He squeezes my hands. “Because she’s here.”

  That is so sweet, maybe the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “And, Shari Nance, I am seriously, helplessly, head-over-heels, shamelessly, and endlessly in love with you.”

  Oh ... man. I heard “Shari Nance.” I should have known something like this was coming. But maybe he’s only saying it because he’s in my bed and just had some, um, release. I have to make him repeat it. “You’re what?”

  He picks me off his lap and turns me around, wrapping my legs around him. He looks me in the eye. “I am ridiculously, passionately, fully, wildly, and out of my mind in love with you, Shari Nance.”

  Maybe he’s not just saying it. “So soon?”

  “What do you mean, so soon?” He smiles. “I have known you for years. You’ve been my friend for years. I can talk to you like I can talk to no one else on this earth, and we’ve been talking for years. But this morning when you yawned and stretched on the edge of the bed. That little sigh you made. That sly smile. I knew at that moment I wanted that for the rest of my life.”