#Blocked, page 23
She moaned. And he moaned.
And he called out her name.
And they kissed again.
And she ran both hands through his hair. And arched her back.
And he groaned, slowing his rhythm. But going deeper somehow. And though she wanted him to stay inside her, live inside her, she felt herself release. Buckle. She embraced him tightly as he slowed down to a stop. And he stayed inside her for a while, catching his breath. Then kissing her. Soft. Really soft.
Then he slowly pulled out and moved off the bed and stared at her for a while, then excused himself.
And when he walked across the room to the bathroom, and the colors of the lamp hit his face, she could have sworn…
His eyes were watering.
Chapter Thirty-Four
He drove over the Marquam Bridge, heading home after a fucking long, shit, ass day of work. The temperature outside was a whopping thirty-nine degrees, yet even with the heat off in the car, he was sweating. He loosened his tie and when that didn’t help, he tore off his blazer jacket, losing control of the car for only a second.
“Oh, shut the fuck up! You think you own the road?” he screamed, pressing down on the horn.
The tiny man in the Kia Sorento flipped him off before admitting defeat and pulling back. He tried to commit the floppy-haired hippie’s face to memory, just in case the guy ever walked into FFS and begged for a job like the pathetic man he was. The vision made him chuckle, and his mood lifted by at least two notches.
A Michael Finnissy composition that he couldn’t remember the name of started playing on NPR, so he turned it up to an almost deafening level. It was a thing he did whenever he was in his car alone—or, of course, if he was being driven around. Only a certain volume level or higher gave him that weird sensation behind his neck, as well as a giant shot of dopamine. Looking in his rearview mirror, the waterfront buildings reflected the water and reminded him of— He did a quick U-turn off the bridge, almost hitting some slow round woman holding groceries while crossing the street. Who the fuck walks in the evening? Doesn’t she have a car?
Getting closer to the building he visited the least, for obvious reasons, that familiar gnawing started in the middle of his chest. His prior physician insisted the sensation was caused by indigestion. “Too much spicy foods and fats,” the idiot with a stethoscope had said. It wasn’t that simple. Yes, maybe that’s how it started—akin to a lit match. But someone, he reasoned with himself, has to hold that match to the fuse that then lights an explosive device. And there was one particular person that knew how to do that. That could write a book on bomb explosions…metaphorically speaking. The kid’s definitely not smart enough to write a book on anything, he thought, and chuckled again.
“Sarah, please come into my office.”
Sarah, whose annoying brown hair faded into blonde like she was homeless or in rehab–or perhaps, a halfway house for societal rejects—timidly walked in and shut the door way too slowly.
“Yes, Mr. Blaine?” she squeaked in that up-speak kind of speech pattern that always sounded like a question even when it wasn’t. Of course, this time, it just happened to be one.
“Sarah, sweetheart. You’re one of my best workers. I just want to tell you how much I appreciate you.”
“Oh, thank you.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands so she put them behind her, like a child being lectured to by a teacher. It was a little enduring, but mostly gross. She was a grown woman, after all. “But, Mr. Blaine, I actually was going to talk to you. Um—”
“Call me Noah,” he said, and swiveled his chair back toward his laptop.
“Um, Mr.— Um, Noah, sir, I actually was going to give you my two-week notice. I’m—”
“Absolutely not. Did I mention how valuable you are to me here?”
“Oh, yeah. I just, my friends and I just bought—”
“How much do you need to stay?” he asked, typing fast.
“Oh… I don’t think—”
“You know what. I think you deserve a promotion and health benefits. What do you think?”
The dull, thirsty flower brightened at his proposal. “What kind of promotion?”
He swiveled back to her. “Double what you make now. If you perform well, it could possibly even go up upon evaluation.”
She smiled and relaxed her arms beside her. And from the change in proximity of her bosom to the ground, the rigidity flowed out of the rest of her body too. Hmmm. She actually wasn’t that bad looking of a girl. A little weathered under the eyes. Some skin damage. Idiotic hair. But really not bad at all.
“Okay, that’s settled,” he said. “Now, sit down and give me the rundown.”
She sat down and her smile faded slightly. Noah toggled through camera footage, until he got to a camera on Bo’s floor. He fast-forwarded until he saw Bo and Winter, holding hands, walking down the corridor.
“Well, she’s been coming over almost every night—no, I think it was actually every night and—” Her voice trailed off. “They seem really happy.”
Noah rolled his eyes and sat back. “Every night?”
“Yeah.”
“And he hasn’t brought anyone else here?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure, because I’m really not in the mood to go through all this footage right now.”
“No Mr. Blaine—I mean, Noah—it’s just been her.”
He realized there was an imperfection in the bottom left corner of his half-framed wooden glasses and took them off to buffer them with a cloth from his breast pocket.
“So, do you think he’s taking this girl seriously?” he asked. “She’s—what did you say? A social media harlot?”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Oh, yes, you said it last week. I remember it clearly because I haven’t heard anyone under the age of seventy say the word harlot.”
She smiled. “Okay, maybe I said it.”
Noah fast-forwarded the footage and watched Bo and Winter emerge from Bo’s place. They walked down the corridor and the footage switched to the elevator, where Bo held Winter’s face with both hands and kissed her passionately. He shut the laptop hard.
“You and I both know that they are not going to work out. But I need it to happen sooner than later.”
She hesitated, then said, “Why is that?”
“He has obligations…to business and to people…and everything else equals wasting time plus money.”
She looked confused, though, she usually looked like that. Noah was beginning to think she got high on the job. Fucking hippies. All over this damn city.
“Come on,” he said, standing up. “I’ll explain more at dinner.”
She blushed. “Dinner?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not like that…” He put the laptop in the desk drawer. “It will be our first business meeting to go over your promotion… A christening, if you will.”
Flustered, Sarah stood up fast and the chair flew back hard against his library cabinet. He sighed, taking off his glasses to examine the wooden surface with his nearsighted eyes.
He couldn’t find a nick, even when he ran his finger on the surface to see if he could feel any invisible blemishes.
Lucky for her.
And just like he thought, she followed him out the door like a sad little puppy dog.
Coming soon!
#Followed: A Social Media Love Story
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About the Author
Savannah Thomas was born and raised in Podunk*, Oregon. She escaped her self-diagnosed Prison of Shyness Disorder by self-medicating with daily doses of Head in the Clouds antibiotics. Her severe daydreaming turned into poetry and story writing and at the age of 15 she was published in Anthology of Poetry for Young Americans. Years later she sold a story about her mother’s mental illness to the now defunct Elle Girl (the younger sibling to Elle magazine), and earned a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Savannah has an affinity for creating tantalizing worlds with relatable characters, particularly in the romance and fantasy genres. Besides her passion for writing, Savannah loves making music, acting (check out her imdb page!), listening to podcasts, playing video games, and snuggling with her cat Jessie.
*Not actual name of town
Savmthomas@gmail.com
SavannahThomasAuthor.com
Savannah Thomas, #Blocked
