Page 12 of The Cruiser
ChapterFive
In my freefall backto earth, I rush past stars and darkness and crash breathless from an annihilating orgasm. As my bedroom ceiling slowly comes back into focus, all my wicked fantasies of Morgan linger in the afterburn. The slow and pounding assault. His refusal to let me take the lead. Those lips feasting on mine. He feels so real, I half-expect to see him panting beside me. Instead, Derek's immaculate side of the bed sits empty, as it has been for too many months. A week ago, his arrival was the only thing on my mind.
How quickly things change.
Rolling off the wet spot, I ignore the guilt creeping into my afterglow and fumble for my phone on the bedside table. No text, no nothing from Morgan. Did I play it too cool last night? In the end I didn’t say no, but I didn’t say yes, either. Jesus. Vaughn’s right. My head’s not in the game. What kind of fool doesn’t jump on a trip to Monaco?
No, I’m sorry, I really don’t go for that sort of thing.
On top of it all, I inferred impropriety on his part! I managed to skate my way out of that, barely, and then…
If only that stupid kiss didn’t happen.
You mean, if you didn’t dry hump his mouth?
Yes, okay, maybe that.
The thing is, Morgan didn’t get any less attractive throughout the evening. And if this morning is any indication, he’s not easy to forget. Confident but not swaggering. Intelligent and intimidating. Immensely interesting.
He could still call. It’s only 10:15.
I know things are bad when my inner voice takes over. Instead of succumbing to it and spinning endlessly in conjecture, I drag my still quaking booty into the shower. It’s brunch day, and June and Flynn will be here at eleven. By 10:55, I’m showered and dressed, with the best of Trader Joe’s ready-to-eat covering the kitchen island. Flynn arrives first at eleven on the nose. Punctual as a Swiss train, she’s also reliably sensitive and caring.
I can forgive the patchouli.
“Hi, hi, hi!” she gushes, locking me in a bear hug before I have a chance to shut the door. As America’s favorite self-help guru, Flynn is very touchy-feely, and she rocks me back and forth like she’s comforting a devoted fan. “It’s been a week and feels like forever. Everything okay?”
She ends the embrace and stands back, still holding onto my hands. Flynn’s clever green eyes never miss a thing and under their scrutiny, my chin wobbles. I’ve never kept drastic news from either of my best friends for this long.
“Not really.”
“Uh-oh,” she says. “I knew something was up when you invited us here.”
Our weekly brunches are ironclad, unless extenuating circumstances crop up. Derek coming home last Saturday took me out of the mix, and they’d understood. But swapping the Beverly Hills hot spot we’ve been dying to get to for a gathering at my house is super suspect. I don’t cook. I can boil an egg if need be, but why go to all that effort? My lack of culinary skills aside, Flynn and her uncanny internal radar pick up on the unusual silence. When he's not working, Derek is a homebody. The TV or Pandora, sometimes both, are on.
The pieces fall into place for her.
“It’s Derek, right?” she asks, crestfallen. I nod, mute, and the tears I’m fighting against start to dribble down my cheeks. “Ah crap, bella. C’mere,” she says, drawing me back into her arms.
I’m full-on bawling into Flynn’s tumble of chestnut curls when June barges through the door. She’s out of breath, perpetually late, but closer than family. At the sight of my teary face, she knows immediately. Her frosted blue eyes flash, then harden. Unlike her fellow British counterparts, June is not about the stiff upper lip. She wears her heart on her sleeve and is the most passionate and intense person I know. Do not mess with her or her peeps unless you want a serious arse kicking.
Kicking off her magenta stilettos, she swoops in to join our hug. “That fucking wanker,” she scowls. “If he’s broken your heart, I’m murdering him.”
* * *
Sometimes all a girl needs are her best friends, a glass of wine, and an emotional breakdown. After my teary-eyed confessional, June uncorks a second bottle of Pinot Grigio and tops us all up. My impromptu smorgasbord is surprisingly ransacked, and Flynn sifts through the remaining tortilla chip shrapnel.
“I’m still in total shock mode,” she admits. “Didn’t you say you two were like, fucking all the time?”
I wipe my nose with a Kleenex, adding it to the crumpled pile beside me. “We were,” I say cagily, aware I let them both believe things were better than they were. We’re all guilty of keeping up appearances and I wasn’t above a bit of boasting, especially in the early days. Back then, Derek and I were unstoppable when it came to sex. On my office desk. In the back seat of his souped-up Barracuda. I married him because he was the kind of guy who fingered me under my dress at the movies and went down on me in an airplane bathroom. Adventurous sex has always been my MO, and I considered my relationships successful with that box ticked. But Derek and I were mismatched on other fundamentals. I realized that a year into our marriage. And did nothing about it for all the wrong reasons.
“Have you discussed living arrangements?” June asks, settling back onto one of the kitchen stools. Shoes off, she barely 5’6, and her steady rotation of come-fuck-me heels, Marilyn Monroe curves bursting out of tight dresses, and bombshell beauty fools men into thinking she’s a pushover. But beneath her platinum blonde waves lies a brilliant business mind. I can see it grinding away.
“No. And we need to. He’s staying with a friend for now. A film guy.” Flynn and June exchange pointed glances. “Not that guy,” I add, although taking Derek’s word at this point is probably not the smartest move.
“If you need to crash at my place,” June offers, “it’s not even a question.”
“Same,” Flynn pipes in. “Mi casa es su casa. Just like old times.”
