The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“I didn’t know we had a destination. I thought we were just wandering.”

“I don’t wander.” She opens her purse and gets out a key fob. When she holds it up to a black pad, it beeps, and the door unlatches. She looks back at me. “Coming?”

I glance into the building. A uniformed man behind a desk reads The New Yorker. The marble floor is shiny enough that I can see my reflection from where I stand. I don’t exactly live in a palace, but I like my familiar, comfortable home that’s a little too worn in, a little too kid-friendly. “This is exactly the kind of place I pictured you in,” I say.

“All right.” She shrugs. “So?”

I put my hands in my pockets. I’ve been out of the game awhile, and aside from the girls I meet in bars, this is easier than I remember. “So nothing. We just go up and do it?”

She gives me a funny look. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes. I just want to make sure it’s what you want.”

“It is. Don’t worry. I’d tell you if it wasn’t.”

I believe her. “Should we at least pick up some wine or something?”

She takes the plastic bag of things from me and nods toward the door. “I’ve got it covered. Come on.”

I get the door for her. “By the way, isn’t this his job?” I ask, nodding at the man in the lobby.

“It is absolutely his job,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice. “Isn’t it, Frank?”

Frank looks up, widens his eyes, and jumps out of his seat. “Miss Van Ecken. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s too late now. We’re already inside.” Her heels echo in the lobby as she strides toward his desk. She stops in front of him and waits. “Well?”

He looks to me, and I shrug. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

“I should’ve had a dress delivered today,” she says.

“Oh. Of course.” He fumbles the magazine, drops it, goes to pick it up, but decides to leave it. “One moment.” He hustles over to a door, opens it, and pulls out a long garment bag. “Here you are,” he says, shuffling back toward us. As he does, his shoe catches the bottom of the dress, and he stumbles.

“Careful,” she reprimands. “This is Givenchy, and it’s worth, well—more than you are.”

I cough into my fist to hide my amusement. This guy is more my crowd, and maybe that means I should interfere, but I don’t need Amelia turning her wrath on me. Not when I’m this close to getting in. Slowly, he passes her the bag. Through a small plastic window, I see a flash of red. It’s my favorite color on a woman, and I wonder where she plans to wear it. She drapes it over her elbow. “Thank you. You might as well get back to your job reading a magazine.”

She pivots on her heel and walks away. The doorman—Frank—gives me a sympathetic look before I turn and follow. I try to reach the elevator before her, but she beats me to it and hits the call button.

“I don’t get it,” I say, when we’re out of earshot. “You want him to get the door for you, but you won’t let me pay for your four-dollar salad?”

With her back straight, she waits by the elevator, watching the digital numbers tick down.

“Do you want to be your own woman, or do you want men to do things for you?”

She looks abruptly at me, as if I’ve voiced some unspoken understanding between her and the universe. “I don’t need you to get me, just like I don’t need anyone to do anything for me. The beauty of being independent is I get to decide what I want from whom. Is that wrong?”

I consider it. Without being a mind reader, it could potentially be difficult to make someone like her happy. “I guess not, as long as you get what you need. How do I know what you want, though?”

“I’ll tell you.”

A woman who tells me outright what she wants and needs—it’s unlikely. If one existed, though, Amelia might be her.

“Don’t you do the same?” she asks. “Why shouldn’t everyone do what’s best for them?”

“Some of us have others to consider,” I say.

“And you always put them first?”

“Bell, yes. Obviously. Sadie and Nate too when I can.” Sadie’s my baby sister, and I’ve always been protective of her, especially considering we grew up with an alcoholic father who liked to pick fights. As an extension of her, and one of the few men I get along with, Nathan’s pretty much a brother to me.

“What about work?” she presses. “What about sex?”

Automatically, I think of Shana. It would be easy to say I had always put her first, but it wouldn’t be true. She made it hard. “You don’t understand” she would say, or “You never listen,” or “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” She pushed back for no other reason than to irritate me. I may not have always understood, but I listened, and I cared. She knew it too.

I push Shana out of my mind. She and Amelia are opposites in physicality, personality, and purpose. I loved Shana. I want to fuck Amelia. That’s where my need overpowers my sense. If I could stay away from women completely, I would. I’m not fool enough to think Bell doesn’t move me around like a pawn, but that right is reserved for my little girl.

Amelia boards the elevator first. “What happens if you and I want different things?” I ask.

The elevator takes off smoothly, but she grabs a railing, steadying herself. “What? No. We have an agreement—tonight only. If you’re having second thoughts, we have to stop this right now.”

If I’d had any doubt about her intentions tonight, they’d have vanished with the look on her face. One thing remains true—the fact that she’s so composed makes her fun to mess with. I reach for the elevator’s emergency-stop button. “Right now?”

“No—” She can’t do anything. She has the dress in one hand, the key to the building in the other, plus two bags and her purse. “Are you insane? I’m talking about us. We need to stop.”

I chuckle, dropping my arm back to my side.

“This can’t ever continue past tomorrow,” she says.

My smile fades, and I deepen my voice. “I’m not talking about tomorrow. I’m talking about tonight.”

The elevator ride is calm, effortless. It doesn’t rattle or sound like it’s working hard to ascend. “I don’t understand,” she says.

I stalk toward her, and she backs up into one corner. “I’m asking what happens if we disagree tonight,” I say, licking my lips. “What if I want to fuck you one way, and you want it another?”

She sucks in a breath. Mission accomplished. There’s no rush quite like catching her off guard. Getting her up here has been easy, but part of me is looking forward to the fight I know she has in her. The elevator dings. The doors open. Neither of us moves.

“Well?” I ask.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“I think we will,” I say, stepping aside to let her pass.

I follow her down a white hallway to her apartment. If I’m not mistaken, she’s hobbling a little bit. She runs a hand over her hair, patting it into place. When we reach the door to apartment 11D, she turns and faces me. “You sure you want to do this? You’re not going to fall in love with me?”

“I won’t if you don’t.”

She shakes her head firmly. “I won’t. I’m seriou

s, Andrew.”

I drop my eyes to her lips. Most of her lipstick has rubbed off, and I look forward to kissing away the rest. Now that I’m this close to her, I see the perfect, smooth black lines of her eye makeup. The gunk on her lashes. Shana wore a lot of make up too, but never this neatly. Sometimes it smudged under her eyes. Sometimes she wore dark lipstick to shock people. I liked her best completely nude. I don’t want to be thinking about Shana-fucking-Lanzo right now, but this is the most turned on I’ve been since she left. Left—and never looked back.

I lean in and drop the act so Amelia knows I’m serious. “I won’t. If you have even the tiniest hope that I will, I’ll leave. I like you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I have no hope,” she says without hesitation. I hear the dryness of her throat, the determination in her voice. She wants nothing from me as badly as I want nothing from her. We’re a perfect match.

“Then let me in,” I say.

She does.

FIVE

Amelia’s apartment is clean, and not just tidy. The walls are so white I wonder if they were recently painted. There aren’t any marks on the blonde wood flooring. She has two great windows, but because this isn’t one of the top floors, the view is mostly of the apartments across the street. As dusk settles, lights flicker on in neighboring buildings.

“Drink?” she asks from the kitchen.

“Sure.” I stick my hands in my pockets and look around. The Upper West Side apartment is bigger than any I’ve been to in the city, but still significantly smaller than my house. From where I stand in the living room, I can see into the kitchen and her bedroom at the same time. She makes good use of the space with a large mirror propped against one wall, and a slim, gray couch that faces an empty space on the wall. I might’ve guessed she wouldn’t have a television. She doesn’t seem like the type to embrace guilty pleasures.

“Nice place,” I say.

“Still think I’m a prissy city girl?” she asks.

“More than ever.”

“Good.”

In the center of the coffee table sits three glass globes of varying sizes. I lean closer for a better look. The bottom halves are sloping layers of white rock and soil. They’re topped with green, blooming succulents edged in purple and pink. Each vessel has an opening large enough for a hand. I have space for a garden in my backyard but no interest in cultivating it. Bell has asked for roses, not that she understands anything beyond the fact that they’re pretty.