31. Oliver
Oliver
I’ve been sitting staring at the walls of my office for way too long. I should have left several hours ago, but I haven’t been able to get my mind in gear, staring at the spot where the massage table was.
I’ve been distracted by that memory for days. I can’t wrap my head around why it was so good.
I’ve never watched a woman get massaged before, and for a while I wondered whether that was the reason. Just the erotic sight of a woman’s hands over another woman’s body...
I arrived back at the office late, having been at a long client meeting all afternoon, and Lissa had already left for the night. The frustration I felt at her absence was distracting enough, but knowing I won’t be able to touch her until tomorrow is pure torture.
I wish I’d never seen her at the hospital.
I rise, buttoning my jacket and glaring at the shelves with disguised dildos as if they’re to blame for me feeling so off-kilter about things.
I never wanted to get to know Lissa as a person, as a mother. I wanted to fuck her and feel no guilt about letting her go. But now that I’ve seen that side of her, she is more irresistible than ever.
The idea of telling her about the thoughts running through my head, the feelings I’ve been fighting, the future I picture in the dead of night when I’m truly honest with myself. It’s so stupid.
She doesn’t want me. She made that clear when she talked about ‘needing this job’. It’s a means to an end.
A shudder runs through me as I think about her touching my scars.
I can’t afford to let the lines get blurred between obligation and a true connection.
I walk to the door, opening it and seeing Lissa’s neat desk. She’s taken a leaf out of Adelaide’s book and kept everything immaculate. I approach it, running my finger over the corner, the back of her chair, irritated by the jolt of happiness I feel as I catch the scent of her in the air.
Turning away, I walk slowly through the quiet hallway.
At this hour in the evening, there are only a small number of people still on the floor.
No one should spend every waking hour in the office. No job is worth that.
I press the elevator button and send my mother a quick text to check on her.
Natalia was decidedly frosty with me when I was last there, my message about the pills having been translated as an accusation rather than a request. I feel bad for Natalia, but I refuse to believe my mother’s faculties have degraded so suddenly and to such an extent that she’s taking the wrong medications.
My phone buzzes with a response, telling me she’s feeling much better and has been resting a lot.
As the elevator reaches the ground floor, I step out, looking across the lobby to the quiet street outside.
Snow is falling lazily past the long glass windows, a layer of it already thick on the ground. This late winter storm was supposed to begin overnight, but it seems to have arrived ahead of schedule.
My car is in the lot downstairs, but I don’t feel like going home just yet. I would rather walk for a bit and clear my head.
I wave to the receptionists still sitting at the desk in the lobby, watching the snow with worried faces.
I hope they have a way to get home if it gets much heavier.
The city's de-icing trucks usually do a good job of keeping the roads passable, but the sidewalks, once the snow freezes, can be a different story.
For now, though, it’s beautiful walking through it.
The hazy lights of the skyscrapers above me catch the falling flakes, and pedestrians scurry past in groups, dark coats covered with snow.
I dig my hands into my pockets, lowering my face into the thick cashmere scarf around my neck, and start walking.
There’s a great little coffee house a few doors down from the office, and I go inside, passing a woman with a tiny cockapoo in her arms, running out into the snow.
I order a latte and watch the flakes passing by, wondering where Lissa is this evening and considering my options of what to do about her.
In my mind, there are three:
One: Fire her. Get rid of her before my stupid heart gets more involved than it already is. She doesn’t want me, not in the way I want her.
Two: Continue as we are, but keep it strictly business. No more vulnerable moments where I allow her to see my past, or the history written on my skin.
Three: Tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may.
I turn to grab my coffee and walk back out into the street, a wry smile on my face. The mere thought of the third option is ridiculous to me. As if someone like Lissa would ever care about me—a man who pays her to fuck him.
I grimace, coming to a stop in the center of the sidewalk, staring at my reflection in the store window beside me.
My hair is covered in little speckles of snow, my nose red from the cold.
You’re nothing. Nobody.
My father’s voice in my head echoes, loud and angry. I try to shake it off, pushing away the feeling of inadequacy that rumbles at the back of my mind, but it’s hard to silence the words you’ve had inside your head your whole life.
As I step into the center of the sidewalk, there’s a screech of tires behind me, and a moped trying to avoid the traffic on the road speeds past me as I leap out of the way.
The driver yells something inaudible as the front tire skids on a patch of ice, swerving to avoid me. The moped slides into several bags of trash, turning onto its side.
The driver is thrown from the seat and into the road, almost getting hit by a cab, which stops just in time.
Resting my coffee on the windowsill beside me, I run over to the moped driver, who is lying on his back in the trash, cursing loudly. Several other people have stopped, and three of them are filming the whole thing, and another is just uselessly gawking.
Sometimes I really hate people.
“Here,” I say, offering my hand. He grabs it and staggers to his feet. “You hurt?”
He pulls off his helmet and shakes his head. He’s a Latino guy, good-looking with a short beard and a broad smile.
“I’m so sorry, man, I was trying to go around the car and didn’t see you. Are you okay?”
“I’m good. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” I ask him.
“I’m good, but I hope my bike’s okay.”
We both turn to look at the moped lying in the pile of trash, one wheel still spinning.
I haul it up for him, and he laughs, punching me lightly on the arm.
“Dude, you are fuckin’ huge. How did I miss you? Thanks.”
The cab driver yells angrily, throwing his fist in the air before he drives off, and my companion just waves at him cheerily.
“You stay safe, okay?” he says, throwing one leg over the side of the bike and winking at me as he puts his helmet back on.
“Keep off the sidewalks,” I say as he chuckles and slams his hand onto his helmet before speeding away at a stupid pace, shooting around cars and pedestrians and off into the night through the haze of snow.
I go back to my coffee and take a sip. I listen instinctively for any more screeching brakes, unable to imagine that guy is going to make it through the night at this rate.
Reaching the top of the street, I look to the left and right to head across the road. But I see something in the window of a restaurant further down on the right-hand side that catches my eye.
I go still, my heart hammering, as I stare at Lissa’s smiling face, sitting at a table in the window. She’s laughing; happy and carefree.
Without thinking, I move along the sidewalk, pedestrians grumbling as I push past them to move away from the crosswalk.
She looks so beautiful, the candle in the center of the table illuminating her face. She looks different, too, more made up, maybe?
I come to a stop opposite the window, staring through the snow to the bright, cheerful scene, and Noah fucking Finnigan sitting opposite her with a stupid grin on his face as they laugh together.
They’re on a date.
My whole body goes rigid, my hand crushing the cup, hot coffee pouring over my fingers and dripping down into the snow beneath my feet.
Lissa is mine.
That’s the only thought in my head as I see red and walk toward the window.