“I thought you wanted me to take the lead,” I blurt out.
“You will be,” he says, barely turning toward me. “But this needs to be done quickly, so it’s easier for me to supervise while you’re doing it. It’s micromanaging and it’s annoying, but this is an emergency. Don’t worry about it. Just sleep well tonight, because tomorrow, you’re entering a corporate war.”
They say all is fair in love and war, but it feels like I’m on the losing side of both.
******
6 years ago
If I wanted to be honest with myself—which I didn’t—I knew I was a plaything to keep Mark busy. He’d told me about his wealthy parents and, having grown up around wealthy kids in high school, I knew how they liked to use people like game pieces in a board game.
We tried to visit the Louvre again, but it was closed. We tried to ask why it was closed, but anybody nearby either didn’t know or they used French words we didn’t understand.
Still, I wasn’t sad or even mildly upset. Mark turned every disappointment into a chance to make new plans. With nighttime quickly approaching, Mark suggested a few different restaurants, but they were all outside of my price range and I didn’t want him to keep buying everything for me. I suggested we stop at one of Paris’ supermarkets and make our own dinner.
He agreed and, of course, he could cook too.
The youth hostel had a tiny kitchen, but nobody else was using it when we returned. He made us a simple pasta recipe with oil and garlic. I made garlic bread from a baguette we’d bought on the way back. We ate at a rickety table. He told me about Britain, Texas, D.C., and Chicago. I told him about working in a bakery and about being one of the poor kids in a prestigious private school. I even told him about my brother’s friend, who kissed me and then pretended I was a stalker when I approached him in school.
“Did this guy play football?” he asked me.
“What? No,” I said. “He was a baseball player.”
“Ah. Of course. The pitching machine.”
“The pitching machine?” I asked.
“The machine that shoots out baseballs.” He shook his head. “It must have hit the poor guy. Concussions can cause abrupt changes in personality and cause memory loss. Personally, if you’d come up to me, telling me we’d kissed and I’d forgotten about it, I’d have just gone along with it. But I could see it scaring some men. Poor guy kissed you and didn’t get to remember it.”
I played his words in my mind over and over again. I tried to convince myself that he was simply being a good friend, but the hope that he felt more than that heated up in my body, burning me with its allure. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t know just how dangerous hope could be until he taught me that lesson.
After we were done eating, we washed the dishes together. I asked to see his sketches. I sat with him on his cot while he showed me his art. I leaned against him, braver than I’ve ever been. We slowly ended up on our backs as he switched to introducing me to one of his favorite shows on his tablet. The cots were only made for one person, so we laid so close to each other that my head rested on his shoulder and our ankles continuously bumped against each other. It should have been uncomfortable, but it felt like a homecoming.
The only discomfort came when I realized some of the hostel guests were watching us—but that disappeared whenever Mark’s hand brushed against my arm or his leg tapped against my leg—and, when we were almost asleep, I wondered why he didn’t make a move.
In the back of my mind, I knew it meant that he wasn’t into me as much as I was into him, but I didn’t want to let honesty ruin a perfect moment, so I let it go. I convinced myself that we could remain friends, no matter how badly I wanted him.
If I’d been honest with myself then, I wouldn’t have found out how much of a liar he was later.
Chapter 6:
Mark
When I get to my apartment, I should be ready to collapse into my bed and sleep for the next ten hours, but my head is consumed with so much bullshit that Xanax wouldn't be able to knock me out.
I sit down on my overpriced leather couch, leaning back until my head is resting on the back cushion. I close my eyes, trying to imagine a scenario where my company isn't going to war with another company that's a titan among mortals and where my professional life hasn't collided with a woman I've been comparing every other woman to for the last six years.
Why did I ask Zandra to help me?
Idiocy, mostly. My brain shut down from exhaustion and stress while my sexual drive took the wheel.
I open my eyes. I stare up at the ceiling. I'm never like this. I am all about control. Since that Paris trip when I met Zandra and all that happened with the police, I've trained myself to forgo emotions in exchange for self-control.
But Zandra returns and I'm right back to being an eighteen-year-old, possessed by emotions and desire.
My cock twitches. I imagine Zandra sitting beside me, her legs folded underneath her and her hand stroking my hair. That spicy vanilla scent would cover me, the faintest mist that would make me breathe in deeper, crave her deeper, and push myself in deeper,
My hand is gripped around my cock, my zipper barely pulled down.
