Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Brandon

“Courtesy of the lady at the other end of the bar.” The bartender slides a shot glass toward me and gestures with a nod at a young woman sitting alone on a bar stool, a small, beveled glass filled with the same amber liquid in front of her.

I raise my glass and down it in one. The alcohol burns as it goes down; I loosen my tie and unfasten the top couple of buttons of my shirt. My ruined jacket is tossed over the back of the stool. I don’t care about the suit—I’ve an entire walk-in closet full of them at home—it’s the mental images of the janitor’s daughter I can’t shake.

The city is filled with women like her, women who assume that their beauty will excuse their behavior and open doors for them. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole meet-cute with the kid was planned from the outset. She probably saw me exit the elevator and whispered in the child’s ear to run over and grab my attention as a precursor to her own introduction.

Earlier, I’d compared her to Kelly because of the honey-blonde hair and the dazzling smile, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Kelly is more discreet for starters. She would never have caused a scene in a crowded bar to prove a point because she always hated attention.

That isn’t it though. The janitor’s daughter—two near-misses and I still don’t know her name—doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys attention either. She’s not what I’d call striking. The woman hugging the shot glass at the other end of the bar is more striking, but instantly forgettable.

I accept a refill from the bartender and knock it back.

The table behind me erupts with laughter. Their conversation has meandered from a recent vacation in Mexico to an upcoming Knicks game to one of the women not being able to release the fuel cap on her car at a station outside of town.

“ The guy looked at me like I shouldn’t have been in control of an Audi ,” she says, her voice rising above the laughter.

The kind of banal topics Kelly would’ve followed with avid interest.

I stare at the bottom of the empty glass, at a smear of amber, attracting the spotlights behind the bar, and wait for their voices to fade.

It’s the way she didn’t back down. She knew who I was, and she still looked me in the eye and chose not to apologize, perhaps because she knew her friend would back her up.

“Bad day?”

The voice belongs to shot-glass woman who has taken advantage of the empty seat next to me.

“I’ve had better,” I say, appealing to her maternal instinct. Seems to work every time; women can’t get enough of a guy who’s not afraid to reveal some emotions.

I order two more shots with a nod at the bartender.

“My sister works for you.”

As chat-up lines go, it’s original. Not one I’ve heard before.

“Julia?” she says, waiting for me to connect the dots. “I’m Wren, J’s little sister.”

I study her face, the familiar smile and wide gray eyes.

It’s strange how in some people, features seem to meld together to create an attractive image, while in others, there appears to be something lacking. The features work on Wren. Her dark hair is loose, framing her face with perfect bangs, her makeup is smoky and in complete contrast to Julia’s natural, fresh-faced look that she wears to work.

“Wren.” I repeat the name, getting a feel for it on my tongue, and clink my glass against hers. “Are you here alone?”

“Julia isn’t with me if that’s what you’re asking.”

It’s good enough for me. “You want to get out of here?”

She smiles like she thought I would never ask, and I grab my jacket, slide off the stool and wait for my spinning brain cells to settle down. Wren’s smile widens when I offer her my hand. Julia has never mentioned her little sister—what we do outside of the office remains outside of the office. I don’t bring my personal life into the workplace, and I expect my colleagues to conduct themselves in the same manner. Yet it irks me now, although I don’t understand why.

We weave our way through the crowds and step out onto the street. The cool air hits me, and I sway a little, the buildings moving in and out of focus. I’m way drunker than I thought.

“My apartment is a couple of blocks away,” Wren says.

“Wren, pretty name.” My tongue feels thick inside my mouth, and I can’t be sure, but I think my words are slurring. “Did I just say that out loud?”

Wren shakes her head, a movement I’m struggling to follow with my cotton-candy brain, and giggles. It’s a nice sound, not irritating or nasal like some giggles … this is more like a gurgling brook, one I could dive straight into and come up smiling.

“You said that out loud too,” she says, her grin lighting up her face.

“I’ll be quiet now.”

“Can you walk and be quiet at the same time?”

She loops her arm through mine and leads the way, and I walk with her, concentrating on the feel of her left breast through her flimsy dress. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her perfume is light and floral, not overpowering, more inviting. Come closer , it whispers in my ear.

“You smell good.”

“I bet you say that to every woman you meet, huh?”

She’s right.

“No.” I shake my head and regret it instantly. “Only the ones who smell good.”

She props me up against the exterior wall of an apartment building while she finds her key and opens the front door. I follow her inside. A sensor-activated light flickers on in the narrow hallway, but I’m too busy staring at the nape of Wren’s neck to pay attention to my surroundings. She has a tiny bird tattoo behind her left ear.

Tossing my jacket onto the floor, I reach out and stroke it with my finger. Her flesh is warm and smooth, and she tilts her neck, inviting me in. I don’t need to be asked a second time. My lips brush the ink behind her ear, and a soft groan escapes her lips.

The need to have her overtakes everything else.

I press her up against the wall, my body flat against hers, and find her mouth with my tongue. She tastes like whisky mixed with something sweeter. I suck her tongue, my fingers drifting towards her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her squirm. She obliges, and I smother her mouth with mine, breathe into her, combine her oxygen with mine until I feel her body relax.

My head is swimming and I ride it like the Bahamas surf. Make it part of the experience. I use my free hand to tug her dress up over her thighs. She’s naked underneath.

“The door,” she breathes when I move my mouth down to the base of her throat.

I don’t waste a beat.

I move her around so that her back is pressed up against the front door. It rattles, but I ignore the sound, and drag her dress up, over her waist, further, until her breasts are exposed. Her nipples are small, pink, and erect. I pin her arms above her head while my mouth closes around one, teasing it with my tongue, tasting the faint tang of shower gel and fabric softener.

She’s clean, so clean… I bite her nipple and she lets out a yelp of surprise rather than pain.

It’s all the prompting I need.

I release her and drag her dress over her shoulders. She doesn’t resist. She keeps her arms raised, spurring me on, doesn’t even attempt to remove my tie or unzip my pants. She’s enjoying the vulnerability of being naked in the hallway of her apartment building as much as I am.

Her dress lands in a crumpled heap on the floor behind me. “You want to take this inside?” I murmur.

She doesn’t move. There are pink marks in the soft flesh around her mouth from my teeth, and her swollen lips tilt upwards at the corners. “No,” she says. “Do you?”

My mouth finds hers. I hold her wrists above her head and push a finger inside her, feel how wet she is, and add a second finger. She kisses me back. Greedy kisses, hot, fast, brutal almost. I slide my fingers back out and raise them to my mouth—our tongues meet as we both taste her, licking the wetness, combining it when we kiss.

I lower my hands to her hips, my tongue trailing down between her breasts, circling her belly button, and down further still. Kneeling, I spread her legs, and she grips the door frame either side of her as I slide my tongue in. I’m rough with her. Nibbling, sucking, probing.

I don’t stop until she squeezes her eyes shut and her breathing becomes shallow, and then I pull away. I stand up, lick the taste of her from my lips, and take her hand. “I’m not finished yet,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

Grabbing her dress and my jacket, she leads me, naked, up the stairs to her apartment, lets herself in the door, and slips her shoes off. “Where were we?”

An empty bottle of brandy is on its side on the floor when I wake up. I vaguely remember Wren opening it and half-filling a glass. She took the first gulp and dribbled the liquid from her mouth into mine before I pulled her on top of me and we picked up where we’d left off in the hallway.

I prop myself on one elbow and study her face.

In slumber, with the daylight filtering in through the open curtains, I can see the resemblance to her sister even more. Her features are a little softer perhaps, the smudges under her eyes a little lighter, her lips plumper and less defined, as though she hasn’t quite allowed life in this noisy bustling city to harden her. Not the impression I’d gotten the night before.

In the kitchen, I turn on the faucet and wait for the water to run cold. I fill a glass, down it without stopping for air, and refill it a second time. It’s true what they say: water is life. I feel it reenergizing me like a tree slurping the rainfall.

The kitchen is untidy. A loaf of sliced bread is open on the side, the contents spilling out across a scarred breadboard. A buckled box of Kraft macaroni cheese sachets has been left next to the kettle. The sink is filled with used dishes and coffee-stained mugs, and a lid is only half on a jar of strawberry jelly.

My mother would throw a hissy fit if she saw this. I can’t even imagine Julia in this environment with her crisp outfits and perfectly manicured fingernails.

The living space is no better.

I spot a carton in one corner which I missed the night before because I was preoccupied elsewhere, and cross the room, lifting the flap and peering inside.

On top is a camera and tripod. Portable spotlights. Underneath, a stack of books with pastel-colored covers and images of cute animals and bakeries and young women with red polka-dot bandanas around their heads.

We never got around to the part where we swapped personal details, but it looks like Wren is a photographer or designer. Not that I’ll be storing the information for later use. I’ve already lingered longer than usual.

I retrieve my clothes from the spot where I abandoned them. An image of Wren and I crashing into the room in a tangle of limbs and tongues pops into my head and I shove it aside, bury it with the others.

My gaze skims the room—aside from the unpacked carton, there are no personal belongings, nothing to reflect Wren’s personality. A couch that has seen better days, an unused TV stand, a coffee table shoved up against a wall. She’s either moving in or moving out.

In the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water and dry it on a pink hand towel.

The vanity unit is littered with fake eyelashes, tubes of lip balm, hair bands, and tweezers. I slide open the mirrored cabinet and there’s more of the same, everything thrown onto the shelves as if in a hurry. Then I notice the bottle of men’s cologne, right at the back behind Wren’s grooming paraphernalia. I don’t recognize the brand.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There’s only one reason why Wren would have men’s cologne in her bathroom cabinet, and I’m not sticking around to be proven right.

Dressing quickly, I peer into the bedroom where she’s still sleeping, her tangled hair fanned out across the pillow. Her left hand is on top of the comforter—no ring. No tan line either, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a man in her life.

On my way out of the apartment, I pull a wad of cash from my pocket and am about to toss it into the open carton, when I hesitate. I’ve no idea how close Wren is with her sister—do sisters even discuss one-night stands? But while I have no control over how much detail she might go into, I draw the line at my assistant believing I paid for her sister’s services.

Outside, the sun is trying to break through the heavy layer of cloud cover. I check my watch. It’s too late to go home and freshen up, so I start walking in the direction of Weiss Tower. I can shower and change before anyone else arrives. I might even get to meet the janitor on my way in.

Head down, I sidestep around an elderly man walking a scruffy gray-haired dog. There’s little traffic this early in the day and the walk is almost pleasant, the city given a chance to reveal itself in all its glory before the stench of exhaust fumes and the clamor of sirens takes over.

I stop at the traffic signals and wait for a yellow cab to pass before I cross. Halfway, my phone vibrates.

Kelly.

I swallow, and my dry throat clicks loudly. I need coffee. I smooth the lines between my eyebrows and, against my better judgment, hit the green button. Kelly never calls… I can’t even remember the last time we spoke outside of a family gathering, so whatever she wants, it must be important.

“Kelly.” I wince at the sudden pounding in the top of my skull.

Pause. “Brandon, I didn’t expect you to pick up.” I hear the tremor in her voice.

“I’m assuming you want to speak to me about Dad’s birthday.” God, I can be an asshole at times.

“Yes.” I can picture her chewing her bottom lip the way she always did when she was trying too hard. “Look, I know things haven’t exactly been … warm between us, but can we try to put everything behind us, and at least be civil this week?”

“You mean, can I try to put everything behind us and be civil?”

“I’m not putting this all onto you, Brandon.”

“Oh, for a moment there, it sounded like that’s exactly what you were doing.”

I glance up, spot Central Park, and make a beeline for it. It’s been years since I’ve wandered through the park, and I’m hoping it will soothe my nerves and calm my racing pulse.

“Please, Brandon,” she says. “For your dad’s sake.”

I’m aware of my own heartbeat, my stale morning-after breath, the pounding headache vibrating with each footstep. “What about Damon? Have you asked your husband to put everything behind him too?”

“Can we leave Damon out of this?”

“It’s a bit difficult when you’re married to my younger brother.”

It’s a low blow and not my finest move, but my hangover is kicking in, and I have too much to do before I head to Ruby Island for the birthday bash of the century.

“I know. You’re right…” Classic Kelly, trying to play peacekeeper. “I’m sorry, I knew it was a mistake to call, but Ruby is so excited about this week, that I thought, well, I just wanted to let you know that there’ll be no animosity on my part.”

“Is that it?” I ask.

Another pause, and I hear her sucking in a deep breath. “That’s it.”

“Great.” I go to end the call and then think better of it. “Kelly,” I say, praying that she’s still there.

“I’m here.”

“I’m not promising anything, but I’ll try.”

“Thank—”

I cut her off.