Switch Page 12

  guy about my age comes out. He's got a sheaf of blond

  hair, fuck, like Austin, and the same build. But I lift my chin

  and act like I don't care. I don't care. I don't.

  He's not alone. He has another guy with him. And

  believe me, they are not the Chippendales. The music

  starts, the heavy bass thumpa-thumpa of some club

  song I don't really know. The boys, dressed in dark

  slacks and white shirts, ties, start to dance.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I glance at Nat, whose eyes are wide. I look at Tori,

  who's grinning from ear to ear. Laurie puts her hand

  over her face and peeks through her fingers.

  They dance.

  I've never seen anything like it. I was expecting some sort

  of choreographed dance routine, some cheesy costumes.

  But not this. This is…I am…

  Wow.

  The taler, dark-haired guy strips out of his white shirt,

  takes off his cap and shakes his hair over one eye. He

  grins, fingers going to the white tie and slipping it loose

  from its knot. The blond's made his way around the room,

  which has filed with curious, giggling and hooting women

  and a few silent men. The dark-haired one, though, he

  turns on one foot and tosses his tie directly at me.

  I know him.

  Oh, shit, I know him. It's Jack, that guy Kira was so

  fucking crazy for. He's taler now, and his hair's longer,

  and oh, shit, shit, he's coming over to me with a look on

  his face that says he knows me, too. His fingers tug the

  buttons free on his white shirt and he slides it open to show

  off a lean chest and bely.

  He's got his nipple pierced and tattoos al over his arm. He

  tilts his head and gives me a grin that sends a lightning bolt

  right to my pussy, and I wish I could pretend it didn't, but

  there's no hiding it. He has to see it, the way my mouth

  opens and my tongue slides over my lips.

  More guys come out of the back and dolar bils are flying

  left and right, but al I can see is this one guy. This one

  grinding in front of me, taking off his shirt, undoing his belt,

  sliding the pants down over his thighs. I want to cover my

  face, afraid he's bare assed, but he clearly knows the

  benefit of anticipation and puls his pants up again, leaving

  the zipper undone to show dark briefs beneath.

  He's got a nice body, nothing like Austin's. He's lean and

  hard, though, and he smels like sex when he puts a hand

  on the back of the couch I didn't want to sit on but did.

  His face is close to my ear when he sings along with the

  lyrics of the song I'l never be able to forget now. He

  makes kissing the sky sound dirty and delicious.

  When he nudges a knee between my thighs I open for him.

  He rubs his body along mine, but fast, not lingering. Then

  he turns. Gives me a sly-ass grin over one shoulder and

  toys with the waistband of his pants.

  Other women are screaming, "Take it off!," but I can't do

  anything except stare. The song ends and slides into

  another and I'm sure he's done. He'l take the dolars and

  go into the back room.

  But he does something else, instead. He gets on his knees,

  sliding across the floor on them until he ends up at my feet.

  And for that one moment, that instant, everything freezes

  for me.

  I can't breathe. I can't blink. I stare at him on that dirty

  floor and our eyes lock. I've never wanted anything as

  much as I want to put my hand in the long silken darkness

  of his hair and pul.

  And in the next moment he's up again, this time shaking his

  ass at the woman waving a five-dolar bil like she might fly

  away with it. The moment passed, but not the feeling. Not

  the memory.

  Later, after the club closed, I fucked Jack in the backseat

  of his car while he whispered dirty, filthy things in my ear.

  We fucked a lot, but not for long.

  He never got on his knees for me again.

  The rap on my window startled me so much my hands

  flew up and knocked against my key ring. I stabbed at the

  radio, switching it off. Heart pounding, I turned to the

  window, expecting a gun.

  I was shot al the same by the sight of the man's face

  beyond the glass. My neighbor, my workout buddy, Mr.

  Mystery. He frowned and leaned closer.

  "Are you al right?"

  I puled my keys from the ignition and grabbed my purse,

  then waited until he'd stepped aside before I opened the

  door. "Yeah. Fine. I was just…spacing out for a minute."

  "Decompressing? Yeah. I do that, too. Sorry I scared

  you."

  I could breathe again, but every nerve ending stil tingled.

  This guy looked nothing like Jack aside from dark hair, but

  even that was nothing alike. I swalowed hard and fought

  not to smooth my hair, though I had a sudden fear of how

  messy it probably looked.

  "It's okay. It's probably not smart to sit in the parking

  garage."

  His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "No, probably

  not. You never know just who might be watching you."

  Funny how that was supposed to sound like a warning but

  Funny how that was supposed to sound like a warning but

  came off as a temptation. He shifted his bag over his

  shoulder and looked me over, seeming as though he might

  say something else, but satisfied himself instead with

  another smile. With a little wave he backed off and got in a

  car across the aisle. It was newer than mine, a dark blue

  hybrid, which told me that at least he was environmentaly

  responsible as wel as hot.

  I waved, too, and watched him drive away. For a second

  or two the memory of Jack's face shimmered and merged

  with my mystery man's. It made me shiver and I put the

  thought from my mind. Jack had been a long time ago, and

  a different time. I was a different me back then.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 11

  Though I'd checked my mail that morning, I couldn't resist

  peeking into my mailbox when I got home. Through the

  smal glass window I expected to see nothing, so at first,

  that's al I saw. Then the black sliver of shadow on the

  mailbox's metal floor caught my gaze and my breath

  razored my throat as I sucked it in. I hid my cough behind

  my hand. There was something in my mailbox.

  A Tenant Association flyer, probably. The T.A. was

  notorious for its enthusiasm for memos. But they usualy

  came on half slips of cheap computer paper, the message

  printed multiple times on one sheet and torn in halves or

  thirds. This was not a memo from the T.A.

  I puled out the card, stil not addressed to me, and looked

  around with sudden suspicion. I have never liked surprises.

  Not in parties, not in relationships, not in practical jokes.

  I saw other tenants in the lobby and standing by the

  elevators. Some with unfamiliar faces moved past me

  toward the stairs to the basement. Nobody looked at me.

  If anyone was watching to see what I'd do, they were

  being
very shy about it.

  being very shy about it.

  And why should anyone be watching? I'd passed the other

  notes along to the rightful recipient. Chances were good

  the person putting them in the wrong box didn't even know

  they'd gone through a different one first. Yet something

  about it seemed off. Who would keep making the same

  mistake over and over?

  Unless it wasn't a mistake?

  But I could think of no reason why anyone would be

  slipping me sexy little instructions. I looked around again. I

  tapped the card against my palm. I looked at the mailbox

  for 114. I peeked through its glass window, saw the

  magazines and letters inside and held the card to the slot.

  I wouldn't read it. I shouldn't read it. I didn't dare read it.

  I couldn't help it, I swear. I was thirsty and it was a drink

  of cold water; I was hungry and it was a loaf of bread. I

  had PMS and it was a bar of chocolate and a bowl of ice

  cream with peanuts and fudge sauce on top. It was the

  cherry on that sundae.

  With a quick glance from side to side, certain no one was

  With a quick glance from side to side, certain no one was

  watching, I tucked the card into my bag and hightailed it to

  the elevator. My phone was ringing when I got to my

  apartment. The answering machine had just clicked on

  when I grabbed up the portable handset from the end

  table. My mom had already started talking.

  "Paige. It's Mom. Cal me—"

  "Mom. Hi." The note, unopened and unread, burned my

  palm.

  "Are you screening your cals?" She sounded amused.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and stared at the number

  on the front of the paper. "I'm not screening my cals. I just

  got in."

  This perked her ears. "Oh? Were you out?"

  "Yes, Mother," I said. "Hence the just-getting-in part."

  "Where were you?"

  "Not on a date, if that's what you're hoping," I told her, just to poke.

  "Too bad for you."

  "Too bad for you."

  "Yeah, yeah. What's up?" I put the note in the center of the kitchen table where it could watch me and I it. I circled it,

  only half my mind on the conversation with my mother, so

  distracted by this new note I'd forgotten I needed to be

  angry at her.

  "Does something have to be up for me to cal my favorite

  daughter?"

  My mom has always been almost more like an aunt or

  older sister than a mom. She was only nineteen when she

  had me, about the same age I'd been when she'd had

  Arthur. I'm not saying she didn't do her best. I'm just

  saying that now, when I'm in my twenties and she's in her

  forties, the age difference seems even less than it did when

  I was growing up and she was the only mom I knew who

  cared as much about the Backstreet Boys as I did.

  "No, I guess not. But there usualy is. Usualy you just hit

  me up on e-mail."

  Since I moved "so far away," anyway, and phoning me

  had become a long-distance cal.

  "Wel, I don't have to do that anymore." She paused and I

  could hear the grin in her voice. "Guess where I'm caling

  from."

  "Paris."

  "No, Paige," my mom said as though I'd been serious. "My car! I'm driving to the mal!"

  "You're talking and driving? Mom, you do know that's

  ilegal in the city of Lebanon. You'd better hang up. You'l

  get a ticket!" Not to mention my mom's driving was

  haphazard even when she wasn't distracted by a phone.

  "You're missing the point, Paige. The point is, I'm caling

  you from my own cel phone!"

  "Ah." I should've guessed it was something bright and

  shiny that she'd caled to tel me. "Congratulations.

  Welcome to the milennium."

  She ignored my far-from-subtle sarcasm. "Leo bought it

  for me. Isn't he the sweetest?"

  As boyfriends went, Leo was one of the better ones.

  Being older might have been part of it, though with his big

  Being older might have been part of it, though with his big

  beer bely and long beard there was no question he was as

  rough a biker as any guy my mom had ever dated. He stil

  rode his Harley to work and sported a line of faded

  tattoos on each arm, but he was melower than some of

  the younger guys she'd dated.

  "That was nice of him."

  "So now I can cal you al the time! And text. I can text

  you, too, if I can figure out how."

  "Oh, joy." I dug into the junk drawer for a pen and some

  paper and paused when I puled out the yelow legal pad.

  My scant list of flaws and strengths stared out at me, and I

  forgot to speak.

  "Paige?"

  "What's your number?" I put that list aside and poised to

  take down the number.

  "I.D.K.," my mom said airily.

  "Huh?"

  "I.D.K.," she repeated. "Geez, Paige. Don't you know

  "I.D.K.," she repeated. "Geez, Paige. Don't you know

  what I.D.K. means? It means ‘I don't know.'"

  "I know what it means. I just didn't think you did. Besides,

  Mom, nobody talks like that out loud. It's just textspeak."

  "L.O.L.," my mom said.

  "M.O.M.," I said.

  We both laughed.

  "Also, listen," she said, but didn't say anything else.

  "I'm listening."

  "Guess who I ran into the other day."

  "With your car?"

  "You," my mom said, "are a smart-ass."

  "I.D.K., who'd you run into?"

  She paused. I waited for the sound of crunching glass and

  metal, but she must've just been puling into a slot rather

  than ramming into a phone pole.

  than ramming into a phone pole.

  "Austin's mother."

  Serendipity. It's not just the name of a mildly entertaining

  John Cusack movie. "Oh?" I couldn't manage a different

  response.

  "She said to say hi."

  "Uh-huh." As far as I knew, when her son and I had

  broken up, Mrs. Miler had been happy to see me go.

  "Don't make that face at me, Paige."

  "You don't know what face I'm making."

  "I'm your mother, I don't need to see your face to know

  you're crunching your nose. You're going to get horrible

  crow's-feet that way."

  "Around my nose?"

  "And guess what she said?"

  I waited while she dangled further information in front of

  me like cheese in front of a rat.

  "She says he's moved up there. Where you are."

  Wel, at least I'd forgotten to keep staring at the note with

  hungry eyes. "Harrisburg isn't a foreign country, you know.

  It's only forty minutes away." I tried not to sound sharp,

  but failed.

  My mother didn't care. When "going away" in the

  vernacular of the area means you're taking a trip to the

  store, forty minutes was an eternity. I was gone. Anyway,

  I'd already known about Austin.

  Harrisburg was my place. Not his. He didn't belong here.

  He should've stayed in Lebanon, where his family lived

  and had always lived and would always live. He should've

  stayed there where every street could remind him of
me

  and he could weep bitter, salty tears at the loss.

  "Lemoyne," she said as though I hadn't spoken. "His mom said he got a new job with some big heating-and-cooling

  company. He's not doing construction with his dad

  anymore."

  "Good for him."

  "I'm sure I could get his number for you."

  "I have his number." She was silent to that, because as far as she knew, Austin and I hadn't spoken since the day I'd

  walked out of our apartment.

  "Fine. Be that way. I just thought you might like to know,

  that's al. He's got a good job."

  "Depends on what you consider good."

  This time, her silence was longer. "Wel. When did you

  become such a snob?"

  I sighed. "I'm not a snob. I'm just…trying to change things

  for myself. That's al."

  There realy was no better way to put it, and no way not to

  say it without offending her. My mother had everything I

  never wanted. Most parents want better for their kids, and

  I know my mom wasn't different. But there's always that

  sting when you realize what you gave someone hasn't been

  enough, even though it was your best.

  "I just thought maybe you might…"

  "What?"

  My mom cleared her throat, a sure sign she was getting

  ready to pretend she hadn't done something to piss me off

  when she knew she had. "I just thought maybe he'd seen

  you. That's al. Been in touch."

  "Stalked me, you mean?" Angry again, I paced the length

  of my living room and then around my kitchen table, and

  finaly into my bedroom, where I stopped so I didn't have

  to make another round. "How could you tel him where I

  lived, Mom? You know I don't want to see him!"

  "You know, Paige, once upon a time you'd have been mad

  at me for keeping him from you."

  "Once upon a time was a long time ago," I said.

  "I'm sorry," my mother said stiffly. "He caled and asked if I could tel him where you were living. I didn't think you'd

  mind. You said yourself you had his number."

  "Mom…" I sighed and pressed my fingers between my

  eyes to keep myself from completely losing my temper. "If

  I wanted him to know where I lived I'd have sent him a

  card."

  card."

  "I'm sorry, Paige." She sounded sincere, but I knew her

  wel enough to know she was sorry I was angry. Not sorry

  because she thought she was wrong. "I have to go. I'm at

  the mal."

  "Okay. Fine."

  "You know," she said suddenly, "it wouldn't kil you to come back home every once in a while. Arty misses you.

  Me, too."