10. Shake It Off, Taylor Swift
"Shake It Off," Taylor Swift
Cruz
“What does sex with you entail?” she said, shocking the shit out of me.
“That’s a legal question?”
“You need a contract,” she said, suddenly in motion to her office. “For the women who won’t leave you alone.”
She returned with a briefcase, pulling out a laptop and perching on a stool at her kitchen island. I opened my mouth to say that no way in hell would I ask a person to sign a contract before we slept together …
But I hesitated.
She was thinking about sex with me. She wanted details. And even though she was my tenant and I shouldn’t think about sex with her and this was a terrible idea …
I couldn’t wait.
I dropped the air mattress and shut my mouth.
When she pulled cat-eye glasses out of her bag, I gripped the granite island. There was no way I could leave, not when she was playing into a harsh librarian fantasy.
She typed like Kermit the Frog’s maniacal keyboard-smacking GIF. “When a woman—wait, I shouldn’t presume—when a person claims their one night, what is the implicit agreement?”
“That’s up to them,” I said, reading over her shoulder:
This agreement, entered into by and between Party A and Party B, sets forth the terms governing their voluntary activities on the night of [date]. Both parties affirm their full consent in the activities described herein. It is mutually agreed that this contract shall terminate upon the departure of Party A from the premises.
Too restless to watch her type, I slid my boxcutter through tape on an unopened box, removing a decorative vase.
“What we did last night: one kiss, sleep in your bed. Would that be considered,” her voice lilted in a mocking tone, “my one night?”
“Of course not.” If she claimed her night, there would be no sleeping.
“What is the line of demarcation? Second base or third?” Her unrelenting fingers tapped away. “Light or heavy petting?”
I hadn’t heard those terms since middle school. Was she raised by nuns? Honestly, that would explain a lot …
I placed the vase on the top shelf. When I turned, her gaze snapped down from the rise of my shirt, keystrokes never faltering.
“I’ll be clear: Does a night count if it includes oral, intercourse, or penetration? Or if one or both parties experience a climax?” Holy shit, those words in that voice on those lips was getting me worked up, but she didn’t crack a smile. “Is there a minimum allotted time?”
I grappled with an answer. “Two hours.”
She swallowed but her face stayed neutral.
“Maximum?”
“Twelve,” I said, biting back a laugh at the shock she quickly masked. “What if it’s cut short? Is that the coitus interruptus clause?”
I assumed that lawyers used templates, but this seemed like a second language to her, as seamless as slipping into Spanish when my mom called. She muttered along as she typed:
If the engagement is interrupted, both parties have the option to reschedule within one fortnight, subject to mutual availability.
This contract does not create any legally binding obligations beyond the scope of activities outlined herein. Both parties acknowledge their rights to freely consent or withdraw consent at any time. By signing below,
Her phone rang, flashing Alex’s name and smug face. She stood and twisted away. As she listened, her top lip curled into a sneer.
I slid my hands around her waist. Her body tensed as I rested my chin on her shoulder and planted a loud kiss on her neck. “Come back to bed, baby.”
Bumps ran down her spine as he stammered and hung up. She whirled around, hands on my chest to push me away but paused with her palms on my pecs. “What the hell?”
“You clearly didn’t like whatever he was saying.”
“He invited me to the farmer’s market.”
“Sounds nice. So why was your face so …” I exaggerated a pout.
“With his new girlfriend, who is spending the day baking pies.”
“You looked revolted, you weren’t going to go anyway. Why does it matter?”
“Now I’ll have to explain—”
“You don’t have to explain. He’s not your boyfriend, remember?” I quoted some of my favorite lyrics: “Your ex-man brought his new girlfriend, so you know what to do.”
Her brow furrowed.
No. No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
“Victoria,” I took her shoulders, speaking slowly so she couldn’t miss this important lesson. “You shake it off.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She couldn’t possibly not know … “You’re not a Swiftie?”
She rolled her eyes at me.
No, worse: She rolled her eyes at Taylor Swift .
The heathen. My sister Luisa would die at the disrespect. Her breath would catch in her throat, she’d grab her chest as her heart stuttered, and she’d keel over right there.
“You need to know this song, Victoria. It’s a rite of passage,” I said, pulling it up on my phone. “Dance with me, please?”
“I won’t dance, but you’re welcome to,” she said, attention locked on her laptop.
Challenge accepted.
Knowing my phone was still connected to her speaker, I turned it on full volume, my hips swaying to the trombones as I lip-synced along with my girl Tay. I trailed my fingers along the top of Victoria’s computer, singing about how people think I’m brainless and hook up too much. She pulled the computer closer, her unimpressed gaze fixed on her screen.
Unfazed, I grabbed a wooden spoon as a lipsync microphone, shimmying off the haters, twerking against her countertop, and brushing off her shoulders. She leaned back from her keyboard with hard-fought annoyance.
As the song’s bridge approached, I leaned across the island, pressed her laptop lid down, and rested my chin on my palm. I gestured my eyebrows at her phone as I mentioned the liars and dirty cheats, and Victoria ran a hand over her puckered mouth. Then I released my hair from its bun as Taylor sang to the fella with the hella good hair. If the music hadn’t been pumping, I might have heard an involuntary chuckle. Extending my arm in invitation, she finally rose reluctantly.
Our dancing was silly and playful. I spun her wildly, her spaghetti arms flailing to keep up with my frantic pace. At last, a flicker of amusement broke through. Encouraged, I wrapped an arm around her waist for our frenzied twisting and spinning.
As the final notes faded, she met my gaze, chest panting, lips parted, breathless and exhilarated. A surge of desire coursed through me, tempting me to close the gap.
But she was my tenant. And even if she weren’t, she didn’t do casual hookups … or casual anything, by the look of her.
So I spun her back onto her stool, keeping the island between us as I unpacked another box.