The Problem with Lust, page 4
“Again, that’s not your problem. Why do you care?”
“I didn’t want to get him in more trouble,” I say, suddenly growing tired of this conversation.
Christina puts down her glass of wine. “He was cute, wasn’t he?”
I dip my bread into the prawny garlic oil and take a bite. Christina’s waiting for my answer with an expectant look on her face. I shake my head and lie. “He wasn’t cute, not really.”
Well, maybe just a little.
He had something.
“He’s not the type of guy I’d notice,” I insist when Christina looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. I said that because a guy like Max is so different than someone like me. A guy like him would never notice someone like me.
“What did he look like?” Christina probes.
The muscles in my jaw tighten because I don’t want to talk about Max anymore and I especially don’t want to tell her about his likeness to Thor.
It took me until halfway into the crochet class to get over the reaction I’d had from sitting behind him and hugging him during the motorcycle ride and now Christina’s asking me about him again.
I shrug. “He was so-so. He was wearing a helmet most of the time.”
“Oh, boy.” Christina laughs, as if she’s not buying my lame reply. She licks her fingers before wiping them on a napkin. “You’ve told me everything about Ed, right down to his hunt for a memory foam mattress, but you haven’t said much about the guy who crashed into you and then gave you a ride to the vet’s. I know you, Trinity Weldon. This guy is cute, and I don’t think he wore his helmet the whole time.”
Sometimes, Christina can read me so well, it unnerves me. “He was rude is what he was.”
“That’s normal, of course he’s going to try to pin the blame on you,” she says, dismissing my remark, “but what did he look like?”
I picture him again. “He had blondish hair. Slightly long, not a buzz cut or anything.”
“Eyes?”
“Brown.”
“Body?”
“I don’t know.”
“He gave you a bike ride over to the vet, you sat behind him and you don’t know?”
“He was average.”
“Average? Like Ed Moorcroft average?”
God, no. Max is nothing like Ed Moorcroft.
Nothing at all.
I can’t tell Christina how it felt to be riding with Max because she will judge me. I can’t tell her, because I still don’t understand it myself, how I suddenly found myself so turned on by a man I’ve just met, a man I barely know.
“Ed asked if I wanted to go out to dinner sometime.”
Christina’s eyes grow big. “He asked you out?”
“He asked me to dinner.”
“I think you can safely say he asked you out on a date.”
I wince. “Not exactly. He said we should go out for a pizza sometime.” It’s hard to tell with Ed because he waffles so much, and he’s vague at the best of times. If I did go to dinner with him, and if it was a date, I have a feeling that we wouldn’t move forward too fast. Which is fine, because I’m not going to have sex before marriage, and Ed is the same.
There will be no nasty surprises which I’ve had on a few occasions when the guy I’ve dated hasn’t shared my point of view.
The thought about a date with Ed suddenly makes me uneasy because after months of talking to him, I’ve never felt anything like how I did after exchanging a few angry words with Max.
That guy has managed to crawl under my skin and root himself beneath the surface. I hope this is a passing moment of craziness and once he’s fixed my car, I can wash him right out of my system.
“What did you say?”
“Huh?” My head is full of Max and I’ve completely zoned out of the conversation.
“What did you say when Ed asked you out?”
“He didn’t ask me out. It’s just pizza. We could go where we went for the crochet class Christmas party. You could come along,” I say, instantly warming to the idea. What better way to emphasize to Ed that it’s not a date than by having Christina come with me?
“And be a third wheel?” Christina huffs.
“It’s not a date.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Christina’s still harping on about Ed but my thoughts are firmly wrapped around the Motorcycle Guy.
I don’t know how he managed to do that. How he managed to crash into my car and convince me to let him fix the damage.
I seem to have lost my senses.
Chapter Seven
MAX
* * *
I’ve barely slept this weekend.
Gina’s apartment looks like a bomb hit it; there are clothes lying on the floor, empty pizza boxes, wine bottles and glasses everywhere.
We had sex in every single room, in every possible way. That’s what happens when a sex-addict and a nymphomaniac get together. Things get crazy.
But it’s Monday morning now, and time to get back to reality. Gina doesn’t have to return to her base until later, but I need to hit the garage extra early today. After another night of not sleeping much, I’m surprisingly alert.
“Why do you have to leave so early?” Gina asks, lying on the bed, doing her best to entice me to stay.
“I have stuff to do,” I tell her. “I don’t want to piss Enzo off.” I’m sitting on the bed with my back turned to her as I pull my T-shirt down over my head.
She touches the scars on my back gingerly.
Stupid dares. This is what I tell all the women who ask. They always wince and look as if they can feel my pain. Sometimes I tell them that the wounds were inflicted in some sort of bizarre initiation ceremony when I was a teen and got in with the wrong crowd.
Some women assume I got them in combat, and I let them believe that, even though I’ve never enlisted.
They run their fingers over them, and some of them even press their lips to them. They think I wear these scars with pride, like war wounds.
I don’t.
Because that’s not what they are.
She slides off the bed. “Can’t I tempt you to stay a little longer?” She stands directly in front of me. I’m putting my boots on, and when I look up, my eyes are level with her pussy.
I lick my lower lip. Even though we’ve fucked twice already this morning, I can’t say no when it’s offered to me on a plate.
Temptation rears its beautiful head, but I stand up quickly before my cock gets other ideas.
“Do you ever stop tempting me?” I kiss her on the mouth. Her hand slips south and her fingers start to tease me again, but I push it away. “I gotta fix a car, and I need to get it done before Enzo shows up.”
“You’re going to love me and leave me?” she adopts a poor-me tone and pouts as I gaze at her lips longingly.
Love?
I won’t ever tire of this woman, but what we have isn’t love. It’s lust.
I feel as if I need to point this out and remind her, because we both know that this is all it is. But sometimes Gina forgets. Or maybe I’m making too much of her statement.
I decide not to say anything because it’s too early in the morning to discuss the fine print of our relationship.
“Let me know when you’re next in town,” I say, walking away.
She blows me a kiss in return.
I need to get the schoolteacher’s car fixed as soon as possible. Enzo doesn’t like it when we work on friends’ cars using his garage space, tools and our labor.
The schoolteacher isn’t a friend, but I owe her a favor, and I don’t want to incur Enzo’s wrath for taking up space that a legitimate client would. Plus, I’m the one who’s going to have to fork out money for the repairs, and I know Enzo double-checks the paperwork for this type of work. I’ll still have to pay for the materials I use, albeit at a discounted rate, and the labor will be free because I’ll be fixing the car.
Al is already at the garage by the time I get there. He said he’d help me, even though this is an easy enough job to get done. I appreciate his help, though I suspect he wants to know about my weekend with Hot Gina as much as he wants to help.
Sure enough, as soon as we greet each other, he asks how my weekend went. I tell him over our morning cup of coffee, but I don’t tell him every little thing. I’m not that shallow, but the morsels I throw him are enough to make his eyes glaze over.
“Does she have a friend?” he asks, like he always does.
“No one with her range of skills.”
“If she ever gets bored with you, make sure you tell her about me.” He thumps his chest like he’s taking a solemn vow. He makes a play of this.
I grin. “Sure, dude.” I can’t see Gina getting bored of me. We’ve been friends-with-benefits for years, and what we have works for both of us because I don’t see her much. She doesn’t live here all year round, and only comes home occasionally. Also, she isn’t fazed by the fact that I don’t keep in touch with her when she’s away. She doesn’t expect phone calls, or gifts, or texts, or emails. All she expects is forty-eight hours or more of sex, and I fulfill that function easily.
“And what about Sammy?” I ask, playing along with Al. “How are you going to break it to her?”
That’s when his ruse backfires. A smile spreads over his face. “You got me!”
He’s not interested in Hot Gina’s friends, even if I knew them. Al would run like his butt was on fire if Hot Gina or anyone like her came for him.
He’s happy with Sammy.
The rest of it, my adventures, are pure fantasy that he likes to hear about, nothing else.
It’s perfect for me. Not so much for a normal guy like Al who’s in love with his girlfriend.
Gina and I are in lust, not love.
I don’t need a girlfriend. I don’t want some needy woman hanging around me, wanting me to do nice things for her, asking me to tell her constantly that I love her. I’m not sure I know what love is. My mom gave me away at the age of four. She tricked me. She left me sitting on some steps and told me she’d be back, but I never saw her again.
It’s always made me wonder why. Was I not good enough? Did she not love me?
I was adopted by a wonderful couple who gave me a good life and a solid upbringing, and made everything good again. But then my adoptive mom died when I was a teenager, and I felt abandoned again. It wasn’t her fault, but I loved her. She was the rock I clung onto, fashioned from the memories of my birth mother, but she loved me deeply. And I her.
Somehow, my dad and I got through that dark time, but deep down I’ve always been wary of love, and what it means.
It means jack.
I connect with people through sex.
Lots of sex.
It’s why I have friends-with-benefits in and around Chicago, even though Hot Gina is the main one. But she only comes home every few months and we hook up for a crazy weekend.
“Come on, help me out,” I say to Al as I set down my coffee cup and walk over to the car. I examine the dent. It’s big, and it’s not going to be as simple as I first thought. Then there’s the bumper to fix too. I mentally calculate the costs.
Shit.
I don’t have enough to pay for this repair upfront. “Can you loan me some money?” I ask Al.
He pulls out his wallet. “How much do you need? I have a tenner.”
That’s not going to do it. I’ll worry about the payment later. My first priority is getting this thing fixed and out of Enzo’s garage before I piss him off too much.
Chapter Eight
TRINITY
* * *
“I’ve fixed your car.”
I’m expecting a greeting. At first the words don’t make sense, but the voice is familiar. Annoying, in some way.
And then I remember.
It’s Motorcycle Guy. A rush of excitement flows through me “Oh,” I manage to say, then, “Already? That was fast.” It’s Monday lunchtime and I feel strangely humbled that he worked on it during his weekend.
I look up to see Ed walking into my classroom. Seeing that I’m on a call, he raises his hand in an apologetic gesture and leaves.
The mechanic laughs. “I fixed it on my own time but it’s ready for you, and as good as new, well, as good as I can make it. Pick it up when you want.”
“I’ll come over once school finishes.”
“Cool.”
He hangs up just as I was about to thank him because I am surprised by the speed of the repairs. He must have worked all weekend to get it fixed so fast.
When school ends, I rush out, eager to get to the garage, but in my haste, I bump into Ed.
“Going home so early?” he asks, as if it’s a cardinal sin. “Your art class isn’t until later.” His comment immediately gets my back up. “You know my schedule by heart, Ed. Did you want something?”
“I was going to ask you how your picnic with the artists went.”
“It was good.” It’s a vague answer as we stand in the hallway. Ed would have been in my classroom now and we’d be sharing our weekend highlights, instead, I sense that he’s wondering why I’m in a rush, and where I’m going. His need to know bothers me.
“What did you do? Did it take up your whole day?”
“I can’t stay and chat right now, Ed. I have to pick up my car from the garage.”
“Your car? Why, what’s wrong with it?” He looks at me expectantly.
“Some guy ran into the back of it on Friday.”
His features show instant concern. “No! Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Are you all right?”
“Clearly.” I hold out my hands and shrug to indicate that all of me is fine.
“Who was it?”
“Some guy on a bike,” I say slowly. I can’t figure out if I’m desperate to get away from Ed, or eager to see Max. “I should go. I’m lost without my car.” I start to move away.
“I can give you a lift,” Ed offers.
“Aw… there’s no need, but thanks.”
“How will you get there?”
“I was going to take a bus.”
“A bus? There’s no need. I’ll take you.” He irritates me more and more by the minute, but as soon as I have that thought, I feel guilty. Ed’s a nice guy. A sweet guy, and I’ve never thought of him as being annoying before. Something seems to have happened to me ever since I met Motorcycle Guy. Excitement swirls inside me at the thought of seeing him again. I push the thought away and flash a smile at Ed. “That would be a big help, thanks.”
We talk about the weekend as he drives. I tell him about the picnic and how nice it was and he updates me on his mattress saga. I discover that he visited a couple of stores and checked the memory foam mattresses as per my recommendation.
“Did you find one?”
He shakes his head, his eyes on the road in front as he proceeds to tell me about all the mattresses he looked at and what he thought of them.
For some unexpected reason, I find myself glancing at his hands on the steering wheel, and imagine myself sitting behind him on a motorbike. My body doesn’t get anywhere near as excited at the prospect. Naturally, my thoughts drift to Max and a fluttery sensation floats inside me in anticipation of seeing him again.
Soon enough, Ed pulls up in the parking lot of the garage, and I catch a glimpse of Max’s back. He’s in his coveralls. I suck in a breath. My nerve endings are doing a version of the Mexican wave, and a ripple of excitement fans out from my core.
I can’t drag my gaze away from him. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, forcing myself to turn to Ed. “See you tomorrow.” I’m eager to get out of the car and equally as anxious for him to drive away.
“I’ll come along,” he volunteers, turning the engine off. “I’d hate for these guys to con you into paying more than it’s worth.”
He can’t be serious. “Nonsense,” I say, in an attempt to dissuade him. I dislike him treating me like a little woman, as if I’m incapable of dealing with repairs to my car and, more than that, I’m not particularly eager for Ed and Max to meet.
I want to meet Max alone, not have Ed hover over me like I’m a schoolkid he has to chaperone to the bathroom on a school trip. But before I can make my objections known, he’s out of the car and standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to get out. I do, slowly, my stomach churning.
“There’s your car,” Ed says. It’s parked up in front, and he starts to walk towards it. I see Max turn to him with a nod of his chin and I rush to catch up with Ed so that I’m by his side. Max glances at me. I see something like surprise when his gaze flits between me and Ed.
He greets us with a “Hey,” then, “Let me show you what I’ve done.” It’s difficult for me not to stare at his back as Ed and I follow him to my car. I can already feel it happening, the heat creeping along my neck and face. I wipe my hand across it in an effort to get a grip.
“There you go. All fixed.” Max steps out of the way and reveals a dent-free shiny-as-new car. It’s been polished to make it look so much better than it is.
I examine the bumper, and then run my hands over the place where the dent was. It’s hard to imagine that this was all mangled and knocked in a few days ago.
I don’t know what he did, but it’s impossible to tell that this was so badly damaged before.
“It’s perfect,” I say. It’s impossible to disguise the admiration in my voice. “You did a great job. Thank you.”
“Told you I’d fix it as good as new.”
“And the problem with it stalling?” I ask, cheekily.
Max wipes his hands on a cloth and shrugs. “I had a look, and I think it could be a problem with the alternator or fuel-flow issue, wear and tear and all that. You’d be better off getting another car, to be honest. If you replace the faulty part, or try to get it fixed it’s going to cost you as much—”
“Why don’t you take another look at the problem?” Ed asks, interrupting rudely.
“I fixed what I needed to,” Max replies calmly, but his face is hard. It’s easy to see that he doesn’t like Ed’s comment.
