Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I WANT MY OWN FUTURE
PAST
S omething about seeing the man who had his face between your legs a few days ago on your TV is extremely jarring.
The same lips that were covered in me are spread in a smile before answering whatever question the interviewer asks.
Abraham had to attend a movie premier tonight, and for the first time, I pay attention to the entertainment channel Miley always has on in the background as I cook, or as we eat food she ordered on the rare nights she’s home.
“Oh, Professor Hottie,” she sings out, coming in from picking up the food that was delivered downstairs. The scent of Chinese food has my mouth watering.
I try not to react to her words. Or to how beautiful the actresses and models walking the red carpet are.
He isn’t sending them messages about how he can’t wait to see them again.
Or is he?
I shake my head and glance back at Miley, who’s serving us in the kitchen .
When I turn back to look at the TV, Abraham is no longer being interviewed.
“How is his class anyway?” Miley asks as she heads over, handing me a plate full of food before plopping beside me on the couch with one of her own.
I shrug. “Fine. Nothing special.”
She pauses a moment, her fork in the air.
“I heard he’s a dick,” she announces just as I’ve taken my first bite.
I sputter out a laugh, trying to keep my food in my mouth.
“Kind of,” I tell her once I’ve managed to chew and swallow my food. “But what does it matter? I just need to pass his class.”
She nods, chewing her own food.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “I heard he likes to fuck students so if he tries to fail you, just throw him some pussy.”
If only she knew.
But the question is out before I can help myself.
“Where’d you hear that?”
Miley’s eyes are on the TV as some famous actor walks down the red carpet, causing female fans to scream.
“Oh, you know,” she says, still looking at the TV, “people talk. Plus, some girl was bragging to a friend of mine that she fucked him.”
It makes me feel gross, the idea that maybe I’m not the only one he’s giving his attention to. We never had the conversation about being exclusive and maybe it’s na?ve of me to assume, but I’m not entertaining anyone else, and I won’t be fucking him if he is. If not because I’m grappling with a strange jealousy, but because I’m not trying to have an STD alongside my diploma to show for my time here.
“You need dick and a passing grade. It’s a win either way.” She says it as if she’s trying to convince me, but I don’t need convincing from her. Maybe from him, after having this conversation .
My phone vibrates with a text message, just as I finish my food, putting my empty plate in the sink.
I want to see you
It’s a strange dance between warmth from his words and the heat of jealousy at potentially being just another conquest to him.
If he just wants to fuck me, he doesn’t have to do all of this.
And a large part of me thinks he knows that, given that outside of our interaction, he is an asshole. Surly and short, unable to give a single fuck about what anyone else has to say. I think about the friend he owed a favor to and wonder who that person could be. Or what they’d done to earn a favor from Abraham Pugliesi.
I type out my response and send it while standing at the kitchen sink.
I already saw you on TV.
I want to kiss you.
What am I supposed to say to that? I type the first word that comes to mind.
Why?
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can’t tell if he’s full of shit. He fucks with my brain, scrambling it with his sexual charm. Sexual charm that makes me wonder how many other women it’s been practiced on before it was perfected.
He texts again, pulling me from my thoughts.
Let me pick you up .
I don’t want him to know my address. I want to keep him separate from the rest of my life, safe where we can’t get caught.
You can’t come to my apartment.
I’ve already sent the message when I think about whether what I’ve said will upset him. I know where he lives. I know where he works. I don’t want him to take what I sent the wrong way. But he texts me back quickly.
I’ll pick you up wherever you’ll let me.
I send him the address to a restaurant just down the block and agree to meet him in twenty minutes. I rush out of the kitchen to get ready, bumping into Miley on the way to my room.
“Woah,” she says, nearly dropping her plate, her fork sliding to the floor.
As I bend over to pick it up, I tell her I have plans and I need to hurry up.
“Okay, Sabrina,” she drawls as I hand her the fork and rush to my room. “I expect details.” Her last sentence follows me inside my room as I cringe, wondering what I’m gonna come up with to keep her from feeling out of the loop.
I brush the worry away as I reach for a sundress and cardigan. I drop them on the bed and head into the bathroom to take a quick shower.
As I scrub my skin, I think about how I’ll need to discuss exclusivity with Abraham. It isn’t a conversation I’ve ever really had before. I’ve dated guys in high school, but I haven’t had any real long-term romance that required any loyalty. And it was rare that I slept with someone more than a few times.
If I’m being completely honest, when I fuck Abraham, I don’t plan on it just being a few times. Not when we have another month before classes end.
I dry off and lather myself with lotion as I try to figure out the best way to approach that conversation. I don’t want to come off as if I’m trying to tie him down or commit to him.
In my towel, I race back into my room, pull on panties and my dress, deciding to forgo a bra. One of the perks of small breasts.
My hair is damp and I’m not wearing makeup but on such short notice, I like the fresh-faced youthful look. I choose sandals to complete the look, grab my purse, and call out goodbye to Miley who returns it from somewhere in the apartment.
All through the elevator ride and the walk to the restaurant, I’m fidgeting, smoothing my hair, my skirt.
But when I approach our meeting spot, I stop short as a car slides up beside me.
I glance over at the limo that sits there idling a moment before the back window rolls down.
“I know, it is cheesy,” Abraham starts, “but I want to share this splendor with you.”
My laugh is loud as I toss my head back, staring up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking at him again. His hair is disheveled, and he looks beautiful in that tuxedo of his.
“I’m giving you a taste of the other parts of my life,” he answers like it’s natural to want to include me in something like this. “I should’ve asked you to come with me, but I’m sure you would’ve told me it is not allowed.”
I can’t help the way I glance around at the indirect mention of our secrecy. I’d all but snuck out of my apartment to meet him here.
“It isn’t,” I start. “Neither is me standing here where people could see us.”
“Then get in, Stellina. ” He pushes the door open before sliding over to make room for me. “Don’t make me wait to have you.”
One moment, I’m standing outside on a city street, the next, I’m sitting next to one of the most famous directors whose hands are on me like he’s waited for me all day. The car moves forward as his hands find my neck, pulling me to him.
I open for him, my lips parting to welcome his taste. We kiss like we aren’t in the back of a limo. Or maybe we kiss like we are.
I can taste champagne on his tongue, the distinct flavor of the fizzy drink reminding me that this man is expensive .
And here I am in my second-hand sundress and cardigan that I’ve had for longer than I can remember. At least the sandals are new.
“Your hair is damp,” he starts, murmuring as I pull back to look at him. “Did you shower for me?”
“You seem to think I do a lot of things for you.”
His smile is quick before he leans in for a short kiss.
“Let a man dream, Sabrina.”
He turns and reaches for the bottle of champagne that sits in the side compartment and two glasses. Only one of them is empty.
“I hope you don’t mind that I started without you,” he announces before pouring me my own glass and handing it to me.
“Couldn’t wait?” I tease him, eyeing him as I hold the glass up to tap against his.
“More to kill the nerves, I suppose.”
I pause, the champagne flute nearly to my lips when I turn to him. Then realization dawns.
“Oh, the nerves of having to deal with the press,” I say, nodding and taking a sip of the champagne. It doesn’t taste like the cheap shit I drank on the night of my high school graduation, years ago.
He scoffs .
“I don’t give a fuck about any of those people.” He smiles and leans back to the other side of the seat so he can stare at all of me. “I can’t tell where I stand with you. It makes me nervous.”
I gulp the champagne I had in my mouth and press my lips together, unsure of what to say next. Not wanting to take what he’s saying the wrong way. But how else could I take it?
He sits there, gorgeous with his full lips, his undone bowtie hanging from his collar, his top button open. Surely I can’t make this man nervous.
And why the fuck can’t I? I straighten in my seat and decide to delve further.
“What are you talking about?” It’s disconcerting, how openly he stares at me. Talk about being nervous.
“Your restraint. Your desire to stay hidden. You didn’t even want me to pick you up from your apartment,” he points out, gesturing with his palm up.
“I’m thinking of your reputation and my future,” I try to remind him, even as he shakes his head.
“Any other young woman would simply want to make me their future.”
I stare at him, watching the way he keeps his eyes on me. The thing about his stare is that I always try to avoid it. And in doing so, I miss seeing his eyes. The way they follow every slight movement I make, squinting for a moment when I say something as if he’s processing my words.
“I want my own future,” I reassure him. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried.” He sits up and leans into me, backing me into the corner and caging me with his body. His nimble fingers pull down my cardigan, baring my shoulders one at a time. The spaghetti straps do nothing to shield my skin from his touch.
When his fingers meet a ridge in my skin on my back, I try not to react, try not to flinch. My eyes flutter shut and without a word, he pulls down my cardigan, turns me slightly, and presses a kiss to the scar.
My skin, that bears the marks of my harsh childhood, is falling more and more in love with his caresses.
“Where are we going?” I whisper the question, wondering where we’ll be when we have sex for the first time.
“Home,” he murmurs, kissing my scar again.