Thomas's Muse: A Quidell Brothers Novella Read online

  “Did I do something?” I didn’t know what else to ask but I can’t stand her not talking to me. It’s driving me nuts.

  She nodded and stood up straight, as if she’d decided to not be embarrassed anymore. Or coy. “No, no, of course not.”

  “Did you do something?” I grinned the most disarming grin I could, attempting to charm her out of whatever issue she’s got going on.

  For a long moment, she watched me with her hazel eyes, but she didn’t answer my question. “Twelve fifteen? I’ll meet you at the stairs by your cubicle?”

  I got through. We made a lunch date.

  That was at ten. The last two hours have been excruciating.

  She’s not wearing a ring, wedding or otherwise, so there’s hope. And she’s wearing another tight skirt today, a bright indigo number that screams look at my hips. And look at my ass. And her legs. And her waist.

  Lunch better go well or I’ll be punching holes in men’s room walls.

  I close down my illustrating program and push back my chair. The wheels do their squeaky pinging and it flows into my backside. Not a pleasant sensation against my balls.

  Part of me wants to find a fuck buddy and work out all my pent-up issues over a few hours of itch scratching. Hook-ups serve a purpose, even if I’ve never liked the practice. There’s something about not waking up with the person you went to bed with. I want to see a woman in the morning light, even if she doesn’t always want to be seen.

  Maybe I’m old fashioned.

  It’s twelve thirteen. I’ll wait for her in the stairwell. Nothing beats watching a beautiful woman descend a staircase.

  I push open the ugly door, absently wondering why someone thought the “graffiti” was a good idea. No sense of form, no flow, it looks like six or seven of the company’s mascots threw up. I step into the landing, looking more at the lack of design in front of me than where I’m going.

  “Tom!”

  I look up. Sammie stands two steps up, her hand gripping the railing tight. Her gorgeous breasts are right there. Right at my eye level. So close all I need to do is walk one pace forward and bury my face in her chest.

  She doesn’t say anything. I blink, a sudden fear that I’ve been staring at her chest for minutes—hours—and next thing she’s going to do is take a good strong swing and punch me right in the mouth.

  But she doesn’t. And when I look up at her face, she’s wearing an expression I don’t understand. Is she angry? Embarrassed? Disappointed?

  Oh, shit, I think. How can I be this clueless with women?

  “Ready for lunch?” She’s tilted her head a little and looks away again. I wish I had better light than the buzzing fluorescent donut hanging in the center of the stairwell shaft.

  I may paint this anyway. Sammie, the one bright spot of beauty against an ugly concrete backdrop.

  She steps down to the landing. “When I was in school, the artists I hung around with all made that face.” Her delicate finger swirls in front of my nose. “I called it the ‘composition snarl.’”

  I laugh, happy she’s not going to smack me upside the head, like I deserve. Happy, too, she seems to like artists. “What did you major in?” We turn to walk down the remaining stairs to the first floor and the cafeteria, and I touch her back without realizing what I’m doing.

  A tingle runs up my arm as I feel her muscles sway under my fingers. Shit, I could hold onto those hips all night, with her riding me.

  I pull my hand back before she can get mad.

  “Communications.” She glances at my hand as I move next to her on the stairs.

  I shove it into my pocket.

  “Minored in Art History.”

  I smile. She becomes more and more perfect with each passing moment. We chat as we walk into the main lobby. I keep my hands in my pockets, trying to be a gentleman. It’s difficult. All I want is more touches. More fingers along her back. To feel her skin. To see more smiles.

  Her heels click on the granite floor and draw my eyes to her calves. Smooth, rounded, her legs look strong, like she works out.

  In the cafeteria line she gets chicken salad and an orange, plus tea. Me, I get the same, but bigger, with a breadstick and two oranges.

  At our table she snickers and wags her finger between the two pieces of fruit, an eyebrow up, another blush rising up her neck. “What’s with the matching orange globes?”

  I’m barely able to draw my gaze from the warm glow of her face. God damn I want to kiss her. Right now, right here in the company cafeteria in front of the entire staff. I feel myself harden and I glance away, down at my tray, trying to think about something stupid, like baseball stats or the bad graffiti on the Art Department door.

  My bread stick is tipped slightly but propped up between the two fruits. Like my cock. “Oh, geez.” Quickly, I move the stick to the other side of the plate. I peel one of the oranges, doing my best to ignore the heat creeping up my neck.

  Sammie laughs and sits back in her chair. “I’m sorry. Can’t help but give the new kid a hard time.”

  She still looks uncomfortable but not as much as before, and I relax some. But the “kid” reference annoys me. I yank the rind off the orange and drop it on my tray. “I’m not that young.”

  Chewing, she sets down her fork and her fingers cover her mouth. “That’s not what I meant.” But embarrassment returns, like I pulled up some memory she doesn’t like.

  What am I up against, here? The phantoms in women’s heads are more terrifying than any real bad guy. They lunge at you out of nowhere and rip to shreds the world you’ve built. Like what Dan’s ex-wife did to his life.

  I must be frowning because now she looks worried. “Believe me, no one looks at you and thinks ‘kid.’ You’re…” She waves her hand at me.

  “A moose?” Dan started calling me “moose” when I put on twenty-five pounds during my sophomore year. Wasn’t even lifting that much, other than helping at his work.

  Sammie laughs and shakes her head. “You are big.”

  I shift in my chair, trying to keep my semi-hard state as comfortable as possible, and our knees bump.

  She jumps, startled, and glances under the table. “And long legged.”

  The front of her shirt opens enough for me to see the edges of her little lacey bra. It’s indigo, like her skirt. Her bra matches her touch me skirt.

  I almost blurt out a dinner invitation. Hell, I almost knock aside the table and take her right here on the floor of the cafeteria.

  But Sammie’s phone chirps. She pulls it out of her bag and, holding it out, she narrows her eyes as she reads the text. “Damn.”

  She’s not happy. Or she is happy. I can’t tell.

  “Rick got a second shoot. He’s staying in L.A. for an extra few days.” Her shoulders tighten, as do her fingers around the phone. She’s sitting uncomfortably, the way I would paint her if I wanted to convey anxiety.

  My stomach drops and all of a sudden I don’t want to eat anymore. This Rick is the reason she’s been standoffish.

  He causes her discomfort and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  He shouldn’t treat her that way, I think. Except I don’t know what that way is. Maybe he never does the dishes. Maybe he leaves his underwear on the floor. Or maybe he doesn’t touch her the way she likes.

  She looks up from her phone. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  She’s right—I haven’t said anything for a couple of minutes. Thing is, I don’t know what to say. Everything swimming around in my head sounds idiotic. I want to pick her up and set her on my lap and stroke her back instead.

  I don’t like seeing her upset.

  I blink. We’ve had one lunch and a fair amount of staring and this guy is raising my hackles? Did I learn nothing from Dan’s divorce?

  Sammie leans forward, her face unreadable, poised to put down her phone. But it chirps again and she stops, looking at the screen with the same narrow eyes as before. Until they widen.

  Her entire body stiffens
.

  “What?” I ask. Probably not what she wants to hear.

  Sammie turns the phone around, holding it out. I gently touch her fingers as I take it, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about her skin right now. Whatever is on the phone has her upset.

  I look down at the screen. What time pick you up? the text reads. Have exactly what you need. Don’t worry baby.

  It’s from her asshole boyfriend. I know immediately it wasn’t meant for her. So does she. And I know immediately what it means.

  “It’s vague, right? Maybe he’s talking about a script or something.” She looks more shocked than anything else.

  The phone is still in my hand. “Don’t answer it.” My head is spinning with options: Wait and see if he realizes who he texted. Wait for his excuse. But what I want to do is type out Sammie’s new boyfriend here. Fuck off.

  I hand back the phone before my thumb gets me in trouble.

  She drops it into her bag without looking at it again.

  “You alright?” I want to reach across the table and take her hand.

  “Why did you say to not answer?” Her face looks blank. She’s dropped her hands to her lap like some school girl.

  “Let him explain without prompting.” I sit back. Let him dig his own hole.

  Her eyebrows bunch together and she frowns. “Why?”

  I look away. Damn it, I think, my chances with her just imploded. Showing up in the middle of messes like this only leads to problems. “My brother went through a bad divorce a couple years ago. Best thing is to let stuff like that spin itself out without interference.” You get better evidence of infidelity.

  “Oh.” Sammie sits for a moment, staring at her half-eaten lunch.

  Now my phone beeps. “Shit.” I hold it out so Sammie sees my calendar reminder. “I have a meeting in ten.”

  She nods and drops her napkin on her picked-at lunch. I don’t like that she’s not eating. It means she’s more upset than she’s letting on.

  “If you need to talk, text me. Okay?” I pile my dishes on the center of my tray. I don’t stand and I won’t either, until I know she’s okay. If I’m late for the meeting, so be it.

  Sammie watches me and her face is impassive again. But she nods finally and stands up.

  “I’m glad I met you,” she says. “Thank you.”

  If we were alone, or in a restaurant, or outside, or—damn it, I don’t know. Anyplace but here. Anyplace other than the cafeteria where we both work, I would have kissed her. Straight up and over the table, a full kiss right on those beautiful lips.

  But I breathe because she doesn’t need a scene right now. “You’re welcome.” I lift my tray as I stand, partly to hide my hopefully not that obvious desire to be near her. “Text me.” Or call.

  We walk up to our respective floors and I wait by the Art Department door as she ascends to her level. The indigo skirt hugs lovely hips as she steps one leg up, then the other.

  I know one thing for sure: That asshole boyfriend doesn’t deserve what he’s got.

  5

  Samantha

  I made it through my embarrassment and ate lunch with Tom. Yes, I can act like an adult. But then he had to go and be perfect. Eight months and Rick has never cared if I’m okay. He brought me tea when I had the flu but mostly he stayed back, saying he didn’t want to catch my bugs. He never makes sure I’m okay okay. He’s never even asked me to text when he’s gone.

  And I doubt his last text was meant for me.

  This time, when I open the door to the loft, I don’t hit his bike. I hit nothing.

  Mickles rubs against my leg, meowing for his dinner. I pick him up, cradling him in my arm, and he headbutts my shoulder as I drop my bag on the floor.

  He’s soft and smooth under my fingers, a sweet vibrating ball of fluff and love. I breathe, listening to his purr, and try to clear my mind. All I need to do is open the windows. And let in the light.

  Part of me thinks I should be ecstatic. My wanting to move out is Rick’s fault. All the rolled eyes and the ignoring weren’t just his crabby moods. It’s always been Rick’s fault and I’ve been picking up subtle cues. But if that’s so, then why do I feel so empty?

  Something needs fixing and I don’t know what.

  Mickles’s food smells terrible but he likes it. I dig in the freezer, the cold numbing my fingers and the rattling drone of the fridge filling the empty loft—and my head—with a constant buzz. I pull out a random microwave dinner and drop it on the counter. Mickles scarfed his entire bowl and now sits in the center of the kitchen floor, cleaning his face.

  The cat knows what he wants.

  My dinner tastes like paste. I push it away, wishing I’d eaten more of my lunch. An orange right now would taste good.

  Some orange on the walls would brighten the entire loft. A little paint, maybe some laughter.

  An orange held by one Mr. Tom, Thomas Quidell, peeled slowly and with great care, the way his fingers would peel away my blouse.

  Or how I fantasize he’d treat me—gentle pressure along the tight muscles of my neck, strong hands cupping my breasts, his warm, masculine breath teasing my neck.

  What am I doing? I think. I pick up my phone. Rick’s freaky text is still there, still vague and still weird. I stare at it, thinking it’s as strangely lifeless as his loft and I wonder what attracted me to him in the first place.

  But I know: I like sex. I like men with hard muscles and strong jaws who like sex, too.

  And once again, I wonder why I feel empty.

  I absently flick through my contacts. Maybe right now I need a friend more than I need a hot guy. Or maybe a hot guy friend who understands where I’m coming from.

  Except my finger brushes past Andy’s number. It brushes by all my girlfriends, too. And stops on a place I wasn’t expecting: Tom.

  Damn it, I think. Why does he have to be so perfect? And then I stop thinking. My impulses take over.

  I tap away: Thank you again for lunch.

  A second passes and I drop onto the squeaky couch, staring at what I just did. He said text me and I did like some horny kid.

  A response pops up: You are welcome.

  Now what do I do? Ask him if he’d like to get some dinner? Tell him I want a booty call? Lie back on the pillow and add the new and improved Tom to my favorite fantasy?

  I’m so fucked up.

  Another message pops up: You okay?

  He didn’t type I’m coming over. That’s what Rick did, the first night we met. I left the party and an hour later I had my ass in the air and a male model pounding away groaning how much he likes chicks who can take what he gives them.

  Just a little disoriented, I message back.

  Lunch tomorrow.

  I stare at my phone. Part of me is screaming Yes! while another is screaming No! The worst of it is that I don’t know why.

  Sure. Lunch tomorrow. I set down the phone. Mickles watches me from the back of the couch again, purring like he always does. He drops onto my lap and curls up into a ball of happiness. A cat knows when a moment is good and a cat doesn’t care if what’s done is bad. Or if what’s coming is worse. Cats just know what they like in the moment.

  Maybe I should pack my stuff. Or maybe I should wait until Rick is back and we have a moment to talk.

  But Rick’s not a talker. I don’t even know where to start with him.

  Never have. Never will.

  I stroke Mickles’s back, thinking about that space between me and Rick. That big, empty place we often filled with sex because sex is something we can both do. And do well. But when the sun comes up, the curtains are always closed. Nothing gets in.

  I lie back on the couch, thinking about how correct I was before: I’m so fucked up.

  * * *

  Thomas

  Bart’s running circles around my legs. “Uncle Tommy! Uncle Tommy!”

  I’m not paying him the attention I should because Sammie texted me back: Lunch tomorrow.

  My brain’s yelli
ng Score! but I know I shouldn’t be smiling like some stupid kid. I need to be careful. Don’t need to do dumb shit and end up like Dan.

  “Uncle Tommy!” Bart’s in his superhero pajamas and he’s bouncing on his toes, his arms out, ready to be hoisted into the air.

  “Sorry about that, little man.” I tuck away the phone and swing him up to my shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  He wraps his little hands around my forehead as we bounce along. “Daddy said Uncle Tommy was coming over and that I could stay up so you could tuck me in and then I’ll go to sleep because I have school tomorrow and I’m tired.” He makes a show of yawning so he can touch the ceiling.

  “Well then, we need to do just that.”

  Dan’s leaning against the wall next to the door, grinning. He’s set the last of my boxes out for me. With tonight’s load, I’m officially out of his basement.

  I carry Bart over to his dad and bow so he bops a little on my shoulders. A massive giggle curls from his little boy throat.

  “School, huh?” I ask. Bart’s four and a year out from kindergarten.

  Dan ruffles his son’s hair. “Mister Smartypants here got accepted into the Early Childhood Arts program at the center, didn’t you?”

  Bart bounces on my shoulders. “I did! I did! I told them I want to be a painter like my Uncle Tommy and Ms. Frasier is my teacher and she’s really pretty.”

  “Really pretty, huh?” I look to Dan and he nods Oh yeah. I laugh. We’re three peas from the same pod, us Quidell men. “Is she a really good teacher?”

  “She’s got Bart here painting pictures every day, doesn’t she?” Dan lifts his son off my shoulders and sets him down.

  “Yes!” Bart’s pantomiming painting and he squints, holding out his thumb.

  Dan laughs and scoots Bart toward the stairs. “Off to brush your teeth. Uncle Tommy will tuck you in when you’re done.”

  Bart stands straight. “I brushed my teeth!”

  Dan kneels down, his face exaggerated into an unbelieving smirk. “And when did you do this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  I laugh again, remembering saying the exact same thing to our dad when I was little.