(Abigail)
At some point in every woman’s life, a man’s personality becomes more important than his looks. Whether it’s by choice or by circumstance, it’s the concept that still makes life-long unions possible, and what some consider true love. It signifies the kind of maturity that you and your partner benefit from for the rest of your lives.
And Lucas Brimstone made it glaringly obvious that I was not at that point yet.
I sat down beneath a declining willow, unpacking a familiar lunch of turkey and tomato between cut French baguette. While successful meetings normally would have left me on a mannerly high, I left that building craving my drawer of toys and a hot lawyer calendar. Preferably a Lucas Brimstone edition.
Lust was not a feeling I was familiar with, but one look at those linebacker shoulders and square jaw and I was lucky I didn’t need to go for a fresh panty run. He was one of those guys that I put into the shirt-optional category, and could definitely do with less of those pants.
He wasn’t the man I expected would show up. No peacock haircut or eight syllable words – though that fifteen thousand dollar Brioni three-piece was nothing to scoff at. And he could afford a thousand custom suits looking at the firm’s latest quarterly report. Even by New York standards, they were killing it. An image of Luke in a speedo diving into a vault of gold coins popped into my head, and I was in the corner readying my judge’s card for a perfect ten.
He also wasn’t the domineering, my degree says Yale balloon-head most lawyers his age were either. Though he was decisive and direct, he also injected wit and humor into those deep tones, and I can’t remember the last time someone held so many doors for me. Professor Google revealed prodigy, justice warrior, and closer, but left out gentleman. And don’t forget that smile. And those lips. And those teeth. I’d love to play naughty dentist and have him leave marks all over me. And in some ways he did.
I noticed his compassion in the shallow wrinkles on his forehead as he reconsidered his refusal. His overturned decision was based on more than my tactical cleavage – he truly cared about doing the right thing. Definitely more Harvey Dent than Saul Goodman. And judging by the eighteen-inch biceps and mysterious twinkle behind those lashes, a little of Bruce Wayne as well.
Nearly ruining my limited edition Jimmy’s was never great, but that little escapade gave my hands the knowledge that Luke was all fit muscle – more than that modest suit led on. I could do a lot with that canvas. The confusing part is that I wasn’t sure if it happened because I had a momentary condition of goose feet, or if that close encounter with the floor was more deliberate than I wanted to believe. Or maybe I was just daydreaming about the chest hair poking out from the neckline of his shirt that I wanted to run my fingers through. That peeking patch was such a tease, and all I could think about was unbuttoning another notch . . . or three.
But unarguable was the string of bullshit that spewed out of my mouth afterwards. Why did I lie to him? I was a master of heels. I could walk backwards or sideways. I could jog a mile in five-inchers. I could jump off a moving taxi in them, and have the scar on my thigh to back it up. Hell, I could probably trace the damn alphabet on the floor after half a dozen shots but for all Luke knew, I had the coordination of limp lettuce, all because I got flustered.
Again, not a familiar feeling.
Being a credible manager meant shouldering blame for the mistakes of both myself and those working beneath me, and that sometimes meant taking customer shit with nods and smiles. Not a week went by without tissueing off spritzes of angry saliva or holding the phone two feet from my face to prevent blowing out an eardrum.
Phrases like “Fuck you bitch” and “You stupid cunt” that once required ten minutes in the bathroom and waterproof mascara were now water off a duck’s back. I had skin thicker than an African Rhino, but something about Lucas Brimstone easily penetrated that rough hide. My cheeks grew hot as I finished that last thought. Okay, let’s parking lot thoughts with both Luke and penetration.
I licked misplaced sauce off my lower lip, but my mind was too busy reliving those green eyes to taste whether it was mayo or mustard. Hooded by strong brow lines, those emerald orbs flickered and were alive as they gave me the up-down.
I caught his gaze pawing my ass twice during the meeting, and felt it do worse behind my back when he hesitated to introduce himself. He didn’t know, but the windowpane glare caught all of the sudden freeze and raised brows. Giggling, I thought that maybe it was confirmation bias, but that look felt less carnal hunger and more sensual appreciation. Or maybe it’s just because my favorite color was green.
Given his quick reflexes in my damsel in distress moment, a thank you coffee came to mind. But as our eyes locked in that elevator, my mouth did as well, and this tongue that sweet-talked into so many wallets let the moment slip away. What didn’t go was the seed of regret that only blossomed higher as the floors got lower, and I had to give myself a mental backhand to not ride that metal box right back up.
A shake of my head prodded my hands to reach for my phone. I needed help from the maidens that I could always count on and a distraction from thoughts of Luke’s tapered V. While individual American dreams split us up geographically, that little blue box called Facebook messenger made sure the girls were never too far away.
Abigail:
Stace! Jules! How are my favorite bitches doing?
Not eight seconds after reaching out, the phone vibrated in my pocket, a sensation that in that moment would be better received closer to my middle.
Stacey:
I haven’t had manicure in weeks and my eyebrows look like conjoined twins. Not to mention the passive-aggressive attitude half of these douchebags I work with seem to have. But otherwise, great!
How are you Abbs? Any updates on the case?
Julia:
Hey y’all! I’m due for my third vomiting session of the day any minute now. I swear, the pregnant glow wears off fast and there aren’t any as-seen-on-TV paper towels absorbent enough for this shit. And it’s now been four months without sex. Four. Cockless. Months. This little girl better be worth it.
Stacey, take care of yourself. Just because Todd proposed doesn’t mean those caterpillars above your eyes won’t scare him away!
How are you Abbs? Didn’t you have that meeting with that big-time lawyer today?
Stacey and Julia were the sisters I never had. My gateway into fashion. The gals I’d die for. Though we looked like girls who wouldn’t be caught dead in a house without an indoor jacuzzi, they were my Bunker-mates, and the peeling wallpaper and ant-colony in the kitchen corner never slowed us down. In those two years, we shared laughs and lessons while being each other’s emotional safety net for when those sky-is-falling moments reared their ugly heads. We did the big girl type of growing up together, but now we were growing apart.
Stacey was the bull in our group. The only things tighter than the ship she ran were the jeans she wore, and her stories of breaking male egos were priceless. But that alpha woman energy was hard for men to handle, and she burned through boys like July wildfire. That’s why I had to double take when she let it slip one drunken pub night that she was engaged to Todd, who I didn’t expect to last a month given his soft mannerisms and librarian bifocals. But that cloud nine of communal joy and dreams of being the next-door aunt were shattered when she accepted a human-resources position in Washington two weeks later. I was happy for her, and knew that she would finally be among peers in that cutthroat environment, but it also meant two boxes of Kleenex and midnight Toblerones with Jules the night she moved out.
Unlike Stacey, Julia was the level-headed one. She was thoughtful and considerate – perfect mom material. And that was probably why Mathew snatched her up and the wedding in Cancun was just beautiful. I thought that marriage in six months was rushed, but in the words of Beyonce, if you like it, put a ring on it. Dating men five years older felt like soft-core pedophilia when we were uni girls, but Jules needed an older man to match her maturity. Though she never missed a sale at Nordstrom, she spent her free time hidden in classic literature – though you’d be fooled with the way she texts – and it was a matter of time before she outgrew the busy New York lifestyle. Pregnant and married at twenty-five, she decided to move back home and pursue her Education degree while getting child care from her parents – it also helped that Mathew could run his e-commerce store anywhere with an internet connection.
Abigail:
I hate to agree with bile-breath, Stace, but she’s right. Remember those un-waxed, unshaven forty-year-olds moms with the triple-chin kids and a beer-gut husband? We used to judge them from our corner of the restaurant and promised each other we’d never become them. Well, I think you just took the first step. Turn around. Now.
How do you feel nowadays Jules? Can you finish a sentence without having to go pee? I can’t wait until she’s out of you so you can see just how worth it she will be. I’m getting jealous just thinking of her tiny little hand wrapped around your finger. Actually, the fact that it’s been only been four months for you makes me jealous too.
About the meeting today: I had to provoke the obliviously fragile male ego, but I got what I wanted. I hope. It was actually quite embarrassing. I kind of touched his chest. Like rubbed my face all over it. ☹
Stacey:
Jeez, I feel like a gallon of condor turd just landed on my face. Don’t worry, I’m all too aware of that hairy, slippery slope. I’m going to make sure I have two distinctly separate brows by the end of the week.
Atta girl! I know you’re gonna deny it but I can tell you like him. Cough up the deats.
Julia:
I feel like a walking beer tankard. Heavy and always on tap. August can’t come soon enough.
Stace, you’re so right. Abbey’s in trouble. How did your face meet his chest? I thought this was a business meeting. What’s hotshot’s name anyways?
Stacey:
Who cares what he’s called, what does he look like?
I felt highways of blood warm my cheeks. Tucking a loose strand behind my ear, I wondered how they could both tell I was failing miserably on mission stop picturing Luke naked with strawberries in his mouth. Call it some best friend ESP shit.
Abigail:
His name is Lucas Brimstone. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hotshot. Emphasis on the hot. I wont deny it. He looks like, well, a walking hunk of man-candy. I didn’t know my ovaries could sing before today.
I tripped and fell into him and almost broke the zebra Jimmy’s in the process.
Julia:
First of all, there aren’t any guys who are worth losing a pair of those darlings for. Second, I think you should tell your ovaries to shut up, because this guy’s your only shot of giving that bastard Brett his just desserts.
Stacey:
Holy crap I just Googled him. Hubba bubba. And he’s running a law firm? If you don’t jump on him, I’m hopping on the next plane back to NYC to smack some sense into you!
And Brett is the most bastardly of bastards.
Julia:
Don’t listen that crap Abbs. If you screw this up, it’ll be the most expensive dick you’ve ever had. No matter how much of an Adonis he is.
Stacey:
Judging by his height and his size thirteen shoes, that cock would be a bargain on a per-inch basis.
Stacey:
Facebook status says single. Just saying.
Julia:
Abbs. . .
I sighed, not knowing how to feel about Stacey cyber-stalking my new lawyer and twice as confused as ten minutes ago. On my left shoulder, daddy’s little girl knew that Julia was right. Brett deserved a modern-equivalent of a public whipping for what he did to me. In fact, put me in a cage with that fucker for five rounds and bench the ref. But then there was that siren with the cherry black lips and uneven pigtails looking over my other shoulder. She whispered into my ear, pulling me in and cutting off all thought except ones of doing laundry on Luke’s washboard abs.
He certainly had my attention, but the more exciting part was that I had his as well. For as long as I could remember, I never attracted the right guys.
In high school, muscles were necessary for those moments when you needed to bite down and swing, but the only guys who gave me attention either saw me as high-five material or disingenuous chasers who wanted to score on the fighting chick. Though I succeeded at college, I continued to fail on relationships, and doubled down by blocking out everything that didn’t have a price tag on it. Add that to my OCD-level pickiness and a habit to always swipe left and I could count the number of guys I’ve been with on the fingers of one hand. Not including the thumb.
All things considered, hunky lawyer was a nice change of pace from bar creep. I stopped counting at six, but it’s been too many months since I’ve started going to bed alone. After I walked in on Sam’s cock playing speed bag with some whore’s uvula, I swore off men. I was going play house with my job, and bought this sapphire on my finger and called it a purity ring. Pretty soon, photos from Stacey and Julia with their boos made me miss that warm body, and I ended up crawling around a few bars. Instead of sexy strangers who knew how to fill a suit, bars seemed with breeding grounds for tight shirt bros with ironic beards – with about as much charisma as the slack in their tops. When has the standard hello been officially replaced by ‘sup’?
But just because I was bad at love didn’t mean I was unhappy. Single life suited me. I didn’t need to feel ashamed of slipping into yoga pants and out of my bra the moment my apartment door closed or consider someone else’s preference during a Friends rerun marathon. I could take an entire afternoon hunting for that silky little number on the cover of Vogue or take a stupid amount of time deciding which flavor of gelato I was taking home. I could have carrots and ranch for dinner five nights in a row without hearing a complaint. There was no one I needed to report to if I was staying late nights at the store, no one telling me to start worrying about the leaning tower of Pisa in my sink, and no one else’s bullshit I had to handle when I barely had my own act together. I valued my freedom, and I didn’t like following orders.
Don’t get me wrong, I was by-the-book for as long as I could remember. I inherited the keener genes from my mom and my grades showed it. I was the car that you changed lanes to pass, and shook your head at when you saw it was a girl in her twenties instead of a white-haired lady. I set two alarm clocks every night, and I showed up ten minutes early to every eight AM class in college. I treated one-night-stands like myths and made boyfriends roll on a rubber even though I was on the pill. I guess I liked following rules . . . and also breaking them.
Contemplating if I could combine the two concepts, a thought struck of being propped on my knees in front of Luke, following every order to the T. The idea made me squeeze my thighs together and groan audibly, drawing confused looks from the couple next to me, but an innocent smile and the lunch bag between by legs kept my dignity intact. A quick glance at the Michael Kors on my wrist abbreviated the fantasy and I began pounding pavement back to the store. The barely-touched sandwich found a home in the garbage bin, and I felt like the cool head I was known for was right there with it.
I knew what I should do and but also what I wanted to do. Normally, those two were in sync, but not today. And while I usually did what was necessary, that bitch over my shoulder was not shutting her mouth.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/71v9we/downing_abbey_chapter_3