2. SAM
CHAPTER 2
SAM
I’m not sure how many floors it takes me to realize that I missed mine. I’m not even sure what floor we were on when Diane stepped out of my arms. The only thing I’m completely sure of? I haven’t taken a full breath since the doors closed between us. It feels like all the oxygen left when she did.
At some point, my hands take over, slapping the spots where I may have stashed my keycard. It probably wouldn’t hurt to slap myself in the face, but before I can, I find the card, blessedly still snuggled inside the little envelope with my room number written on it.
Then I slap my face. That may have been the best kiss of my life. But I can’t afford to take the relationship train right now. I don’t have time to fall for a girl who will inevitably dump me. I’m not equipped to deal with the emotional fallout when I’m left alone, yet again, for being too much of a workaholic, too boring, too distracted, too absent-minded. You name it, I've had a girl break up with me for it.
Not that I’ve even been with that many women, but every single one has found some deal breaking habit or behavior that sends me packing, whether we’ve been together for a couple weeks or a couple years.
And I can’t do one-night stands. I get too connected too fast, usually for the wrong reasons. I especially can’t do a one-night stand tonight . My boss warned me that tomorrow’s hearing will be boring as hell, so I need to get a good night’s sleep if I’m to be on tap to answer any scientific or technical questions the state assembly members might have.
I keep up this mantra—adding in the fact that I don’t know Diane’s last name, let alone which room she’s in, so seeing her again isn’t going to happen no matter how much I wish I could—all while tossing my portfolio on the desk and shucking off my suit jacket. Even after I roll up my sleeves, the room is unbearably stuffy, so I crank up the AC, grab the ice bucket, almost leave without my keys—the number of times I’ve had to beg a desk clerk to give me another key because I’ve locked myself out is embarrassingly high—but remember at the last second, and then go looking for the ice machine.
I can see another person scooping ice through the small window, and when the door creaks, she looks over her shoulder. My eyes skip over the petite, brown-eyed beauty I never thought I’d see again, from the fine strand of honey-blonde hair draped over a freckled cheek to the plump lips surrounding an ice cube.
An entire X-rated movie flashes through my mind starring those lips, my dick, and all the other things we could do with a bucket of ice .
Diane sucks the ice into her mouth to ask, “You following me?”
I shake my head, “No, no, I promise, I?—”
“Kidding.” She grins, tipping her chin at my bucket. “Machine out on your floor?”
“No. Uh… this is my floor.”
Her brows come together. “Then why didn’t you get off the elevator when I did?”
I snort. “I had no idea where I was when you stopped that kiss. If you’d asked me the date, who the president is… heck, I doubt I’d have been able to tell you my middle name.”
She tips her head to the side. “That was some kiss, huh?”
“How about another one?”
She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
When I deflate, she laughs. “You kill me, Sam. I swear when you go from guard dog to defeated dog, you shrink six inches.”
“You should see what else is shrinking.” I adjust the ice bucket in my arms. “But I know how to take no for an answer.”
She smiles and holds out her hand to make a little give it over motion. “Trade you. It took me forever to figure out how to get this guy to spit out the ice. Hate to see you waste all that time.”
I hand over my bucket and watch as she does a little maneuver involving pressing a button while shoving the bucket under a dispenser before hip checking the hulk of a machine with a growl. Wondering if this is a dream, wondering if I could handle a one-night thing after all, I can’t tear my eyes away from her.
“He’s stubborn,” she says, “but once you get him going, he gives it good.”
Sounds like me.
“Oh really?”
Shit. I said that out loud.
“Yes you did.”
I did it again.
“Still talking, buddy.” She straightens, holding up the full bucket. “Was that a threat or a promise?”
“Uh… both?”
“You know,” she says, tapping her chin with a finger, “the tragedy is, I only have one glass in my room.”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this, since she shut me down already. “Tragedy?”
“I can’t invite you for a nightcap if I only have one glass.”
“But you said you didn’t want anoth?—”
Ignoring my protest, she continues, her nose wrinkling adorably. “On top of that, they don’t stock fridges with those cute little liquor bottles anymore.”
My hand shoots into the air.
“Did you have something to share?” she asks.
I nod.
She’s trying to hang on to this mock professor guise, but the glee underneath it zings between us. “Go ahead.”
“I have two glasses and a gift basket with cute little liquor bottles. In my room,” I add, in case it wasn’t clear.
She tilts her head to the side. “Do you have your ID on you? ”
“Uh, yeah. But I’m way over twenty-one.”
Pretty sure she rolls her eyes, but she sticks out her hand. “Give it to me.”
“My ID?” I ask, even as I pull out my wallet. She could ask for the keys to my car, my apartment, my soul, and I’d just hand them right over.
She peers at my driver’s license briefly before taking a picture of it. “Sending this to a colleague I have to meet tomorrow in case I go missing, so don’t try anything.”
Before I can assure her that I’m harmless, she hands it back. “Twenty-eight was a good year for me.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“How’s that been?”
“My thirty-first year?” She grins. “I think it’s about to get a little better.”
“But you said no.” Not wanting to assume anything, but needing another taste, I step closer.
“I said no to just another kiss,” she says, speaking slowly and clearly so that even an emotional idiot like me can understand. “Because that would be maddening.”
“Oh,” is the only thing I can come up with in response. Luckily, my body has ideas of its own. Leaning in, I brush my lips behind her ear, and then drag them down her neck to the skin covering her taut trapezius, pausing to take it between my teeth briefly. When she gasps, I lave it with my tongue before shifting to find her eyes. “That okay?”
“Ye-yes.” Shoving her phone in a pocket, she reaches up, probably intending to grasp the back of my neck, but she’s got a long way to go.
“This’d be easier if we took these buckets and our bodies back to your room,” I suggest, in case she has second thoughts about coming to mine.
“ Your room with the two glasses and cute bottles, and you’re on.”
“You sure?”
Her index finger skates across my clavicle, a fingernail circling the button at my sternum like she wants to pluck it off. “If we don’t follow up on this, I’ll be up all night wondering.”
Taking that as a go, I usher her out the door and gesture in the direction of my room. Moments later, we’re inside, and both buckets of ice land on the desk. Before I can offer her a drink, she says, “Wow, I thought I was messy.”
Looking around the room, which is, indeed, a disaster area, I just shrug. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Let’s see if we can change that.” Turning back to face me, she pulls her simple dress over her head, and her phone makes a muffled clunk when the fabric hits the floor. She’s slim and wearing black scraps of lace that barely cover gentle curves my palms can’t wait to caress.
“Well, that worked,” I say, knocking on my skull. “Nothing left up here.”
Without taking her eyes off me, she backs up until she hits the bed. “I hope you have enough brain cells left to strip.”
My glasses, shirt, and trousers are off faster than I can answer. But before I can follow her across the bed, she calls, “Bring some of that ice, why don’t you?”
After I plonk the bucket on the bedside table, I take a cube and trace a wet line down her abdomen. She arches into it, her skin pebbling, and I follow the trail with my tongue.
“Mmm, I like that. More.”
“As you wish,” I murmur, drawing a heart on her chest and a zigzag down her thigh. When she moans, I drag the rapidly diminishing cube back up her body. “Okay to get this pretty bra wet?”
She reaches behind her to unsnap it and whips it off, revealing teardrop shaped breasts with rosy nipples. I circle one, before sucking it between my lips, then I massage the other with the remains of the chip until the nipple glistens.
When I grab another chunk of ice and use it to trace her lips, she takes it from me. One hand pulls me in for a kiss, while the other slides the ice down my upper back. My own nipples harden, and I grind them into her breasts as my tongue revels in the chill of her lips contrasted with the warmth inside her mouth.
Her palm flattening on my back, her fingers fisting in my hair, she sucks on my tongue, and my dick feels like it’s going to explode as I imagine thrusting into her pussy the way I’m thrusting into her mouth.
But first, the ice needs to tease her in another spot. Breaking the kiss, I grab a new cube and forge a path. Down her neck, straight through the cleavage, over her belly. Resting the ice in her belly button, I flatten my palm over it until she stops wiggling. Then, hooking my fingers around the fabric hugging her hips, I slide it down her legs, revealing trim curls.
Her chest rises and falls, her breasts tempting, but I’ve got important business to conduct. Retrieving what’s left of the ice, I take it between my lips, spread her legs, and then prop myself up on my elbows. Releasing the ice with the same pop she’d made back at the machine, I spread the lips of her vulva too.
“So pretty,” I say softly before playing over and around its folds until arching hips bring her bud to my lips. Chucking what’s left of the ice over my shoulder, I dive in for a feast, exploring her with my mouth and fingers as I learn what she likes.
She’s not shy about telling me, but I’m proud to say that she can’t quite form a sentence. “More. There. Yes. Fuck,” are the directions I get until her body goes rigid, she fists the sheets, and then finds her release.
I’m so fascinated with the way spasms roll through her entire body that her words take a moment to pierce the fog of my brain. “Sam. Condom? Please.”
My brain scrambled, I lurch to the bathroom, praying that I’ll find at least one in my dopp kit. The gods are with me. I have three. Grabbing them and a towel, I return to the bed where she’s on her knees, still panting, making grabby hands. “Gimme.”
I obey, handing over the packets, and shuck off my boxer briefs. Before I know it, she’s got me sheathed and points to the bed. Falling onto it, I roll onto my back and let her take over the sweet torture of ice play until I can’t take it anymore. “I need to be inside you.”
As she mounts me, we gasp at the contact. She’s slick and tight as hell. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.”
With an evil grin, top teeth pressed to her reddened lower lip, she seats herself fully. Gripping my dick with the muscles of her vagina, she rises and falls, rolling her hips. So powerful. So beautiful. A goddess visiting earth just for me.
When she places my hands on her breasts and arches into them, my brain goes offline. All I can feel is the friction, the deep caverns of her, the tension spreading through every limb.
She gasps, her hips buck, her walls clench, and I flip her over, pistoning into her until I fall into complete oblivion.
Next thing I know, the sun’s on my face, and there’s a terrible sound coming from the bedside table. It takes me a minute to figure out that it’s the hotel room phone.
As I reach for it, I realize that the other side of the bed is empty. Wondering if it’s Diane inviting me to breakfast, I snatch it up. “Hello?”
“Where’ve you been?”
Unfortunately, the voice doesn’t belong to Diane. It’s my boss. Ron Lansdowne.
“Uh, here in my room. What’s up?”
“I’ve been texting you for the past two hours.”
Wondering if I’m late for the hearing, I check the clock, but it’s only just past eight. Just as I’m wondering how early Diane left, a groan from Ron hooks my attention.
“I think I have food poisoning,” my boss says, his voice hoarse. “You’re going to have to do the hearing solo.”
“By myself? But I?—”
“Oh shit. Hang on.” The phone clunks, and I hear him mutter, “I knew it was a bad idea to order shrimp.”
Do the hearing solo? I’ve never even been to one of these things before, and now I have to argue in support of new state regulation, representing not just my company but the entire Seed Trade Association?
I’m up and out of bed and pacing as far as the cord will allow, my own gut churning, when Ron begins talking again. No preamble, he barks orders. “I emailed my statement and some additional talking points to you. Take a look at them and call me on my cell if you have any questions. Ugh. I gotta go again.”
“But Ron?—”
“You do well, I’ll push for an early promotion.”
And then he’s gone, replaced by the dial tone. Dropping the receiver in the cradle, I scrub a hand through my hair, trying to figure out what to do first.
Grabbing my cell phone, I stare at it, wondering why the hell I didn’t get Diane’s number. Or her last name, even.
But then Ron’s words come back to me. Early promotion. The more money I make, the sooner I can leave this horrible job behind.
I need coffee and a shower before I can digest any of this. Twenty minutes later, I’m back in a suit. Weather app says it’s decent out—for November in Albany anyway—so I walk to the New York State Assembly building instead of calling an Uber. The bright blue sky and brisk breeze clear my head, but it’s not enough to calm my nerves.
Or my conscience.
It’s bad enough that Congento sues farmers who accidentally grow our seeds because they blew over from a client’s farm. But to stamp out something as harmless as a seed library or co-op that’s likely doing actual good for the world ?
I manage to find the hearing room and a seat before the politicians arrive, so I hunker down to reread the email Ron sent. As I do, I’m wondering if I have food poisoning too, or if the nausea is coming from the thought of saying this particular brand of fake news out loud, when someone nudges my shoulder.
I grew up with three brothers, so I instinctively swat the hand away.
“Ouch! What the hell, Sam?” a woman yelps.
I look up to find Ron’s assistant Marianne glaring at me. “Uh, what are you doing here?”
“Bringing you these.” She hands me a stack of papers and points to the raised bank of desks where the state representatives on the agriculture committee are now getting seated. “You have to provide copies of your testimony.” She checks her watch. “I need to rearrange Ron’s schedule for the day. You good?”
No fucking way am I good , is what I want to say, but an image of my grandfather’s proud face when I told him about landing this job has me sucking it up. “Yeah. I’ve got what I need.”
Moments later, a man introduces himself as the chair of the NYSA Standing Committee on Agriculture. “I hereby call this public hearing to order, where our invited guests will articulate their concerns and/or support regarding SB 385, which regulates the practices of seed sharing, libraries, and banks. Please remember to keep your statements under three minutes.”
Thankfully, a few other citizens are called to testify before me, so I get to see the routine. Take your place at the desk facing the lineup of the committee members, hand over the stack of paper to an aide, read your statement into the microphone, and then answer questions. I’m scrolling through Ron’s words on my phone, wondering if I can say them aloud without throwing up, when the guy next to me points at the name on the lanyard around my neck. “I think they’re talking to you.”
Blinking, I take the stand. Words march across the screen and out of my mouth into the microphone. Words that belie everything I learned in school. Words that don’t even make logical sense. When I want to scream that it’s all lies, I remind myself of how proud my grandfather was when I told him about landing this job. He actually patted me on the back, saying that he knew his investment in me would pay off. “Maybe you’ll use that big brain of yours to invent a soybean that’ll make me rich.”
So I keep reading. “The Seed Trade Association would like to remind the assembly that unregulated seed distribution is a potential threat to our state’s–even our country’s–food system. Without regulation, including state-monitored testing, there’s nothing to stop bad actors from infiltrating these groups and introducing contaminants into the food supply.”
Before I can continue, one of the representatives asks, “Let me make sure I’m getting this right, Mr. Lansdowne. Are you saying that there’s a threat of some sort of agroterrorism?”
I’m so shocked at the word that I don’t bother correcting him about my name. Looking at my notes, I continue reading. “Uh, what I’m saying is laws governing the distribution of seeds, like any truth in labeling laws, protect the livelihoods of farmers who need to be able to trust the quality of the seeds they’re working with and prevent unfair competition between seed purveyors. ”
A different representative calls for the floor. “Does the Seed Trade Association believe that seed libraries and seed banks are essentially and legally analogous to seed companies like Congento?”
The chair, thankfully, interrupts me. “He’s not here to testify on that subject, Assembly Member Tanner. He’s here to talk about the potential dangers associated with lack of regulation or testing of seeds.”
Just when I think I’m off the hook, another representative is called on. “Would you say, Mr. Lansdowne, that libraries sharing seeds–this agroterrorist scenario–makes our food system vulnerable?” Pulling her microphone closer to her mouth, she adds, “The way we need to control the pornography librarians are selling to our vulnerable children?”
My sister Colleen would kill me if she heard this.
When they run out of follow-up questions, I’m relieved to be dismissed, hoping I did enough to keep my job without completely selling my soul. If you’re going to sacrifice your integrity on the altar of Big Agro, it’d better be worth it.
I gather my things and stumble back to the general seating of the hearing room, wondering how long I have to stick around. Just as I drop into my seat, a familiar voice echoes through the room.
“On behalf of the Hudson Valley Seed Alliance, I thank the chair and committee for inviting me to testify today with my concerns regarding State Bill 345.”
What the actual fuck? The woman who, just hours ago, called out my name in passion is now speaking into the microphone. Just when I hope I’m hallucinating, Diane finds my face in the crowd and sends me a look that guts me. I may not be great at reading people, but that lip curl combined with a slow shake of the head clearly communicates what I deserve: her disgust.
I drop into the nearest seat, heart in my throat, and watch as she turns back to the assembly, straightens the stack of notes in front of her, and then testifies without even glancing at them, as ardent on the stand as she was in my bed. “The only entities seed libraries threaten are conglomerates like those who make up the Seed Trade Association. Farmers and gardeners saving and sharing seeds, doing the work to preserve local varieties, protects our food systems by making us more resilient.”
She continues with a series of well-thought-out arguments regarding the value of seed libraries, all of which I personally agree with—how they can be a center to a rural community, helping those in need to grow their own food and generally contributing to self-sufficiency.
Unfortunately, a few of the representatives won’t stop badgering her about the dangers I brought up.
“I just don’t understand why you’d be against testing and regulating seeds. What are you trying to hide?”
“It’s not a matter of hiding anything,” she replies, an impatient edge sharpening her voice. “It’s a matter of scale. A library or bank is never going to collect enough seeds in a given year to amass the sample size sufficient for proper testing. Not to mention the fact that even if there were a contaminant present, twenty seeds shared from one farmer to another wouldn’t have the impact that ten thousand contaminated seeds sold by a corporation would.”
“So you’re admitting that some sort of infiltration of infected seeds by an agroterrorist is possible?” the representative asks.
Diane’s pale cheeks redden, and her entire torso tenses up. “The vertical integration that the conglomerates running the Seed Trade Association have achieved gives them dangerous control over our nation’s food production.” As her voice rises, the microphone shrieks, making people flinch.
“Please control yourself, miss,” the chairman drones, making me wonder why he calls her miss while he called me Mr. Lansdowne.
She clears her throat and takes a sip of water before continuing. “Laws like the one being proposed would actually make us more vulnerable to the rapid shifts wrought by climate change, whereas seed saving allows us to conserve local and disappearing plant varieties, not be forced to buy them year over year from”—she breaks off to shoot me another lethal glare—“from corporations primarily focused on shareholder profits.”
The chair gives the floor to a different assembly member, who circles back to ask again why Diane’s group is so against regulation. “Don’t you realize that every state in the country requires seed companies to be licensed and to test and label all their products?”
“Of course, I realize that.” At her words, the mic makes the awful sound again, and she shifts to speak around it. “But in many states, those laws only apply if you’re selling seed, not trading or sharing them.”
“Well, who’s to say what selling is? Bartering is an exchange, after all. Just because money isn’t involved… I think it’s a legal gray area.”
Before Diane can rebut this idea, the chair dismisses her. After she thanks them, she uses the walk back to her seat to find my face in the crowd. I begin to stand, but she stops me with a slow shake of her head, like she can’t believe she let me touch her, let alone have sex with her. Like I’m something she just wants to scrape off the bottom of her shoe.
Kind of how I’m feeling about myself right now. I went to Cornell’s ag school because I wanted to learn how to save family farms. I may be making enough money to help support my family farm, but the work I’m doing destroys small farms.
And I just don’t think I can do it anymore. Thinking that I might be able to explain all this to Diane, I scan the room for her face. When I don’t find it, I head for the exit, but she’s not in the hall either. Before I can look further, my phone vibrates. My boss’s name flashes on the screen. Even though I’m not sure what I’ll say, I answer.
“Great job, Sam. You didn’t look nervous at all, while that girl—you really rattled her. She was practically hysterical.”
“She had valid points, Ron.”
“Trust me, it’ll be that sound bite about agroterrorism and her red face that make the news.”
“Like we really need to be squashing seed libraries.”
“Goliath got taken down by David, don’t forget. Meaning: We squash the opposition whenever and however we can.”
David and Goliath. Whose side am I really on? The conglomerate’s or the farmer’s?
“They’re coming for your job, you know,” Ron continues.
“You know what? They can have it. I quit. ”
I hang up before I can second-guess myself. My gut tightens, remembering how proud Grandad was when I got the offer from Congento. From his perspective, they're what makes his soybean farm successful.
It’s been nice to have a company car and a big expense budget so I can take clients out to fancy restaurants where I explain Congento’s innovations in layman's terms, innovations that are impressive from a purely scientific standpoint. But Diane articulated the essential truths. Congento is about making money for its shareholders, not about farmers. Or even food.
Determined to find her and ask forgiveness, I search up and down the hallway. I even return to the hearing room and scan every seat, but there’s no sign of her. Back outside, I stare at my phone like it might cough up her number, but I didn’t have a chance to get it.
But I do have Trivia Crush. Opening the app, I search for user Cortland1898. In the past, every time I’ve invited her to play, I’d get a zing of anticipation. Now, there’s a whole new level of excitement. But instead of a message that she’s either ready to play or offline, there’s a big red slash across her avatar.
She’s blocked me.
Getting dumped by women is kind of my thing. I mean, I don’t blame them. I’m a workaholic, I get tunnel vision, I forget dates, I’m boring. Friends and family call me a player because I cycle through relationships so fast, but ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, I’m the one who got left dangling in the wind.
But even though I’ve known this woman for less than twenty-four hours, the connection I felt with her was different. Deeper .
The disgust and dismay in her eyes were the final nail in the coffin for this job. I need to be a better man, even if it’s too late for her to see it.
Quit your job, lose the girl, what else could go wrong?
Then I remember. It’s almost Thanksgiving. I’ve promised to visit my grandparents’ farm for the holiday. I won’t be able to hide this news if I’m there in person. I’ll have to tell my grandfather.
Diane isn’t the only one who’ll be disappointed in me.