Big O Box Set

I stand up on my bed, hands covering my mouth and the smile ripping my face apart. I try not to get my hopes up. He could be talking about anything: food, his favorite hockey team winning a game, a new job. Anything!

I take a deep, steadying breath, let it out, and sit back down. I’m annoyed with myself for getting so excited. That wasn’t supposed to happen. No strings attached was what he said when he offered to help me out with my little problem. Just a friendly guy offering to give a girl an orgasm. Nothing more, nothing less.

I move on to his next tweet. It’s in response to someone tweeting him first.

Heath O-Maker James: Sorry, not tonight. I have plans.

I go back to see who had asked the question and what exactly the question was. Then I find it.

WanderwomanBree: How about U&I 2night, a bottle of red and some handcuffs?

A knot forms in my stomach and my teeth start to grind together the longer I stare at the screen.

After his tweet to her she responds with a sad emoji and ‘she’s one lucky girl.’

Heath O-Maker James: Believe me, I’m the lucky one.

I feel sick.

All day I’d sat at work, reliving the memory of us together over and over. It was like I was floating over my desk, watching everything happen from distance while I was off in some magical sex Narnia where only Heath and I existed. Meanwhile, he was making plans with the next lucky girl on his list of conquests—oops, my bad; he’s the lucky one.

Well, fuck him.

I try to will myself not to feel anything. I should feel nothing. I don’t know him. Not in any real way. But it’s impossible to feel nothing after the connection we had. Or, at least, I thought we had. So I try to be mad about it instead.

But that doesn’t really work either. When I close my eyes and let the silence in, all I feel is sad. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help it. He didn’t even give it a full 24 hours before moving on. I’d hoped to have at least made enough of an impression to satisfy him for a little while. I guess not.

My Instant Messenger chimes. I open it.

Stephanie: What are you doing? You got quiet all of a sudden.

Me: Nothing. Not feeling very well. I think I’m going to go to bed.

Maybe I do need that drink after all. There’s a liquor store around the corner from my apartment that’s open all night. I could run over there and grab something. No way in hell I’m getting out of my PJs. I’ll just go like this. It’s classier than half the people I’ve seen frequenting that place. Especially this time of night.

Stephanie: Alright. Take care of yourself and get some sleep. Maybe you overexerted yourself with all those orgasms you had last night.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to think about Heath anymore, or my night with him.

I reply, just to satisfy her.

Me: Yeah, maybe.

She says goodbye and signs off. I’m just about to shut off my computer for the night when I hear the alert from Twitter. Probably someone responding to Stephanie’s recent post. I think about ignoring it, but decide what the hell. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

As soon as I look at the message and see Heath’s name, my ears start to ring and my mouth goes dry. My tongue is like s piece of jerky, heavy in my mouth.

Heath O-Maker James: You left in a hurry this morning. Was it so bad that you couldn’t wait to get away from me?

When I reach for the keys, my hands shake so bad that everything I type comes out with multiple letters.

Me: iii hhad too wworkk

I delete it and stretch my fingers. Why the hell am I so nervous right now? Get it together, Callista.

Finally, my hands stabilize, and I’m able to write. I check the spelling before sending. Several long, excruciating seconds tick by before he replies.

Heath: Come have drinks with me.

My heart grows wings, betraying me. I’m not supposed to feel aflutter right now. I’m supposed to be mad. I’m supposed to feel nothing.

Have a drink with him? Tonight? His date must’ve fallen through. I’m not going to be his plan B this time.

Me: Sorry, I can’t.

I was about to throw his own words back at him: ‘Sorry, I can’t. I have other plans tonight,’ like he’d said to the girl on Twitter. But then he’d know I was snooping in his feed and that would make me look desperate. Which I am, only, he doesn’t need to know that.

Heath: Come on, please? I turned down wine and handcuffs for a chance to be with you tonight.

Wait, what? I’m the “lucky girl” in his Twitter conversation? This time when my heart takes flight, I don’t try to hold it down. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

Me: What time?

Heath: I can be in Brettsville in an hour.

Me: I’ll see you then.

After sending him my phone number and address, I turn off my computer. After the initial shock wears off, I squeal and jump on my bed, doing my happy dance. The neighbor downstairs thumps on her ceiling to quiet me down. Obviously she’s not accustomed to a ruckus in this particular part of the apartment. It’s been a while since I hosted a man in my bedroom.

To keep the peace, I climb down off of my bed, but the celebrating doesn’t stop. Even while I dance to the living room to turn on music while I get ready, I’m telling myself not to get too excited. ‘Drinks’ is just another word for booty call. I’m okay with that, but part of me wishes there could be more. He’s the kind of guy I could see myself with and not just for the explosive orgasms. It’s a huge bonus, but it’s not everything.

6

I stare out the window at the fat snowflakes falling down in the cone of yellow porch light like dying moths. Not exactly mini skirt and heels weather. I want to look sexy, but that’s not going to happen if I slip and fall on my ass.

A dress is out, so I go for my tightest jeans—not so tight that he’ll have a hard time getting them off at the end of the date—and a sweater cut so low in the front that he’ll be holding his breath, waiting for a nip-slip.

Boots are unfortunate but at least they’re cute. Once my makeup is on and my hair curled, I clean up the clutter in my apartment and remove anything that might be embarrassing. Like my collection of porcelain dolls I’ve had since I was six, and the doilies my grandma crocheted for me. Sorry grandma, but I don’t want anything in this apartment to remind Heath of old people.

He knocks on my door exactly an hour after he told me he would be here. He’s punctual. That’s definitely a plus. I take a breath, square my shoulders and open the door. A cloud of powder rushes into the room around him, the smell of fresh snow and expensive cologne an aphrodisiac that has me concerned about Heath’s welfare. I want to pounce on him. Eat him alive. He looks so good in a pea coat and scarf, his face cleanly shaven, and hair pulled back in a sculpted, yet effortless way. His smile punches me in the stomach, leaving me breathless.

“Mind if I come in for a minute?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say, stumbling on my words. Why didn’t I think of that? I should’ve invited him in. Great, I’m going to be a neurotic idiot all night.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips. “You seem a little nervous.”

Shit.

“Nervous? No. Why would I be nervous? It’s not like we haven’t met before.” The warble in my voice gives the lie away.

He doesn’t call me out on it, just laughs and shakes his head.

“Um, do you want something to drink; coffee, juice, water?” The open floor plan of my apartment gives me a straight shot to the kitchen and a reason to turn my back on him so I get my emotions in check.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” His voice is playful, light. Just the sound of it is enough to make my knees feel like they’ll buckle under my weight. “How about a tour,” he says.

A tour? Thank god I cleaned all the rooms before he showed up.

“Sure,” I say. “Well, you’ve seen the kitchen and living room.” I fee

l my cheeks heating up. I’ve never been embarrassed about my little apartment until this very moment. Before then I’ve always been pretty proud of it. I got my lease when I was eighteen without any help from my parents and I’ve made it my own. It’s cozy and feels like home to me. Or at least it did until he stepped into the room. It’s like having someone so beautiful and perfect in my little space has tainted it somehow. Everything is dull and inadequate compared to him.

“This is the bathroom,” I say.

He squeezes into the tiny space and goes straight to the shower, looking behind the curtain. “A tight squeeze for two people.”

I’m unable to stop the smile forming on my face. “I don’t have to worry about that too often,” I say.

“No? Hmm,” is all he says, and that’s the end of that.

I show him my bedroom next. He takes his time in there, staring at each little item on my shelves and on top of my dresser. It’s like he’s a scientist studying my habitat, and I’m dying to know what he thinks.