Page 2 of Love Always

“You’re close.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and her touch made a shiver run down my spine. Gently she turned me away from the sea to face the mainland again. The slight pressure of her fingertips through the material of my suit jacket immediately made me start to stiffen like I was sixteen again. She dropped her hand and pointed.

“See that big old restaurant there that looks like an ocean liner?”

I could just make out the name. “DiMille’s?”

“Yep. Well Portland Pier is one more over.”

“I get that, but how do I get there? I’m not a seagull.”

These pier roads jutted into the sea, parallel to each other and made up the Portland Harbor. I could probably throw a stone and hit the restaurant, but to get to it, I’d have to go back up the pier we were standing on, get back on Commercial Street, and walk down two more blocks until I found Portland Pier—all the while trying not to get pulled off track by parking lots as I made my way down a not very straight street to 107.

“There are some new renovated buildings back there. It’s probably one of those.” She paused and though I couldn’t see her, I could feel her standing behind me.

The slightly damp floral scent pulled around me and tighten my groin further.

“Where’d you park? On Commercial?” Her voice was soft, even, a little raspy and smokey in the lower registers.

I nodded.

“Good luck,” she said. “I have to go anyway. I’ll walk up with you.” She strolled a little ahead of me, and I could watch her move. She moved fast like she was hurrying, her strides were short though, and she caught her hair with one hand and put and elastic around it.

She was just so damn pretty. She was probably five years or so younger than me, but there was a strength to her and a maturity I already admired. When she walked there was determination in every step, and a touch of something else. Something that set the determination off.

It took a few minutes to get to Commercial Street and there she lingered for a moment, pointing again to make sure I saw where I should turn right and loop back down nearly the same distance to get to my destination. A giant neon lobster blinked on the corner like a directional light saber.

“So, good luck, again. I hope it goes well and you get the job,” she said. “And, if you’re around after and want to get a drink … well here’s something for you.” She leaned forward suddenly and slipped a scrap of paper in my suit jacket pocket.

I didn’t turn around as I walked away until I was halfway there. But when I did, Laurel was gone.

I had my interview, it was the third, a formality really. I’d met with Finn Colton and Nic Silvano separately at their Boston office, and this was the first time the three of us would be in the same room together. The offices were brand new, wallboard was still going up and there was chalk dust everywhere and workers laying conduit. There was an incredible view of the Atlantic as one side of the building was entirely of glass. The two men found a nearly completed office and after Nic left to grab another chair, we all sat down. Singularly they were articulate, all business, and carried an air of quiet, deadly efficiency.

Together, it was a fucking bromance. They clearly liked each other and trusted each other with histories that went way back. Finn, slightly younger, was lightly tanned with curly brown hair, muscular, with warm gray eyes that I bet could turn to steel if you crossed him. He was casually dressed for the Boston interview and even more laid back for this one, in faded jeans, hiking boots, and a heavy, gray-blue, mock turtleneck cotton shirt. Even his hair was tousled and he needed what my mother would have called a tidy-me-up-shave.

Nic was the opposite. Slick, trim, lean to the point of slender with a runner’s body. I found out later in the interview, that he’s a marathoner. His suit was some expensive shit that flashed a sheen when he moved. His skin was olive, his hair dark, thick, and wavy with an Italian flair or maybe Greek, but tall, which allowed him to be quiet. A man of few words. I tagged him as a processor, someone who thinks hard before they speak. Between them the patter of their conversation remained respectful, but with a familiarity that was nice, and I enjoyed it. It seemed a little like family. Something I haven’t had in a long time.

By the time we’d finished, it was nearly dusk, six-thirty. Ever since my accident, hunger is not something my body registers very well. I never feel hungry. But I did feel that scrap of paper burning in my left pocket. When I touched it, the coy delivery of her proposal echoed: Here’s something for you.

I called her, asked if she’d like to have drinks and she said yes.

We met for not just a drink, but several at the hotel where I was staying. I’ve had my share of one-night stands and uncommitted sex, but that was before my accident. I sat at the hotel bar, my heart starting to thud with the fear—fear Laurel wouldn’t show up which was quickly eclipsed with fear that she would.

When she walked in, she had a school backpack slung over her shoulder and I remembered her saying she was taking evening courses. As she slipped onto the bar stool next to me, she expertly hung the pack on a hook under the bar. Her skin was luminous, her lips wide, appealing. My breath caught in my throat for a moment. We chatted, she ordered, and I watched her lips against the glass edge of her whiskey sour. She was fun and intelligent and sweet. I could almost taste it. And that was the trouble.

“Food?” she asked, flipping open the “Starters,” part of the four-page menu. When I shook my head no, she closed it. “I’m not hungry anyway,” she said in such an empathetic way I believed her. Four drinks later, she took me by the hand and led me up to my own hotel room.

She tossed her backpack on a chair and gave the room a swift nod. “They paying for this? The interview guys?”

I nodded.

“They sure know how to wow you. Nice room.” She kicked off her shoes, the same deck shoes from the pier, took the elastic from her hair, and as it tumbled free, she laced her fingers through it, finger combing. Her T-shirt lifted and there was a glimpse of the warm curve of her belly. She walked to the bar, her blue jeans in marked contrast to the elegant furnishings. She either really didn’t have time to change after class or didn’t live in the city.

She found one of the complementary glasses, removed the protective paper and filled it under the faucet. Her hand shook as she raised the glass to her lips. “Gotta hydrate,” she said and set the glass down on the counter. As if making some herculean decision, she swiftly closed the space between us, wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her lips to mine.

My body instantly reacted. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, feeling her large breasts flatten against my chest. I sucked down air and kissed her deeply, my tongue searching. Her hands slid to my shoulders, my dick started to stiffen, I could see the pulse in her neck beating … and yet …

Something wasn’t right.

She seemed desperate. She wanted something, but I sensed this something wasn’t me. It was like kisses were food, but there was no nourishment.