Midtown Masters Read online

  “What if you didn’t have another person’s mood to cater to? What would you want?”

  “Again, it would depend. Some nights I might want it kind of lazy. Like messing around while we’re half watching TV, joking and kissing and getting worked up and being silly. Other nights I might want to rip a guy’s clothes off and fuck him on the kitchen floor.”

  “Ah.”

  “Too much information?”

  “No, thanks for sharing. I mean, when you don’t have a sex life of your own, you get curious about what other people’s are like.”

  “You do have a sex life,” she countered. “It just looks different than some other people’s.”

  “You know what I mean. A sex life with another person.”

  “Oh, now I just feel forgotten.”

  A sigh. “With another person in the room, then. In my bed. Or on my kitchen floor.”

  “Sure . . . Just don’t feel like it has to look any particular way.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “I guess I know what the sex you imagine most often looks like,” she said.

  “You do indeed. You promise it’s not so dull you couldn’t stand it?”

  “I told you, it’s refreshing. And there’s lots of women out there who’d want exactly that—classic, intimate sex, worthy of a romantic movie.”

  “Would you?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, yes. I looked forward to Tuesdays.”

  “But you’d want more than that, too.”

  She chose honesty over ego-stroking. “Yeah, I would. I like variety. And I’m an emotional person, and I like for sex to mirror what I’m feeling. Sensual sometimes, like you’re into, but also kinkier. Darker, a little angry, even. Wait, anger’s not the right word. Aggression, though.”

  “I see. What sort of kinky stuff?”

  He didn’t apologize for asking, she noticed. He was loosening up, opening up.

  “A little of this, a little of that,” she said. “Nothing elaborate. I can go submissive or I can be dominant, too, depending on my mood. I’ve messed around with a little bit of masochism and sadism and I like aspects of both, but only for special occasions. Not every night or even every week—that’s too draining for me, emotionally.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I like restraints, or just having a guy hold me down a little, fist my hair. Rough me up. But sometimes I like to do the roughing up, too. I’m a chameleon, like I said.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “I think a lot of what gets me off is figuring out what turns someone’s crank, and exploring it. Being that. Channeling that, and seeing what it does to them . . . Huh. You know, I never really pinpointed that about myself before. Thank you, John.”

  “That’ll be a hundred dollars for the hour,” he teased.

  “Worth it. And yeah, that’s a lot of the appeal of camming, for me. Not just the exhibitionism, which I do like, but being what someone wants. Channeling it, meeting some new and empowering facet of myself, sexually.”

  “I bet you put a lot of effort into your Halloween costumes.”

  She laughed. “It’s my favorite holiday. What about you?” she asked, ready to shirk the spotlight and learn more about this thoroughly intriguing man. “What’s your favorite holiday?”

  “Thanksgiving, I’d say.”

  “Do you spend it with family?”

  “Yes. The last few years I’ve hosted, since I have the most spare rooms. My sister and her husband and two sons come from D.C., and my parents from across town. My sister and mother do most of the cooking, but I like to splurge on some really nice wine, and watch football and play chess with my dad, attempt to comprehend whatever elaborate fantasy world my nephews are playing in. They’re five and eight.”

  “That sounds nice. My mom’s from Korea and never really got into Thanksgiving. I usually get adopted by a friend for the night, or just skip it.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “I don’t mind. Last year I went dancing with Meyer.” Meyer was estranged from his parents—they were intensely religious and to say they disapproved of his lifestyle choices was an outrageous understatement. “What about Christmas?”

  “Similar,” John said, “but just me and my parents. Good food, good wine.”

  “Sounds like you’re close with your family.”

  “I like to think so. Do you have siblings?”

  “For all intents and purposes, no.”

  “You may need to expand on that.”

  “My dad was married before he met my mom, and he was widowed when he was pretty young. I have a half-brother who’s fifteen years older, raised by my dad’s parents back in Korea. I’ve never met him, and my mom doesn’t talk about it. My dad passed away a couple years ago, and my mom’s sisters are still in Korea, so we’re a two-woman unit these days.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Thanks. He was older—seventy-four. He had a tough life, worked really hard. His heart just sort of quit on him.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “A big part of the camming stuff is because I want to pay my mom’s mortgage off—not that she knows where the money’s coming from. But I know losing my dad freaked her out, as far as finances go.”

  “That’s been the most gratifying thing about my writing taking off the way it has,” John said. “Knowing I can help my parents if they need it.”

  “It’s weird when you hit that age when things flip, as far as who the dependent is.”

  “Amen.”

  She paused, studying the shining gold threads weaving a pattern through the bedspread. She wished John was here. She wanted his body lying the other way across this bed—no, in her own, actual bed, not the Parkses’—chatting like old friends. Wanted the question of how real their chemistry was hovering above them, warming the room, making it small. Wanted to see up close what he was wearing, smell his cologne or deodorant or fabric softener. If she tried to kiss him, would he run screaming for the door?

  “What are you wearing?” she asked, breaking an easy silence.

  He laughed faintly.

  “That came out wrong.”

  “It came out funny,” he corrected. “And I’m wearing gray pants and a black shirt.”

  “What sort of shirt?”

  “Um, one of those waffled ones. Long sleeves.”

  “What sort of pants?”

  “They’re pajamas. Flannel.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet. Do they have little stars or polka dots or bears on them?”

  A laugh. “No, just gray.”

  “Socks?”

  “Why do you want to know, exactly?”

  “I just want to picture you. I’ve only really seen your face. I’m trying to imagine what you’d look like, if you were here. Or if I was there, on your couch eating Doritos.”

  “All right then. And what are you wearing? A green shirt. That much I saw.”

  “Just jeans and flip-flops.”

  A pause, and she could feel his smile, somehow. “What color flip-flops?”

  “Silver. They’re super classy. The regular flip-flops from Old Navy are three bucks, but these have a little platform and an extra strap and they’re silver so they were four-fifty.”

  “Ooh la la.”

  She laughed to herself, then sighed. “I wish you were here.”

  Another pause. “Do you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s nice to hear. I sort of wish I was there, too. Which is strange, as I’m usually eager to stay holed up in my den, hiding in my work.”

  “How flattering. And hey, if you’re ever in Pittsburgh . . .”

  “Pittsburgh?” he echoed, sounding struck.

  It had slipped out—the ground seemed to shift under Suzy’s back at the
gaff. She worked quickly to sound cool. “Yeah, Pittsburgh. I know you live in Philadelphia. Small world, huh?”

  “To say the least. I’ll be in Pittsburgh this weekend. Well, Swissvale, technically.”

  She blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “You live in Pittsburgh?”

  “Yeah. What are you coming here for? Work?”

  “Research, yes. There are a couple chapters in the next book set there. I’ve arranged a walk-through of an abandoned steel mill . . . It’s hard to explain. There’s a serial killer involved.”

  “Jesus, you have a cool job.”

  “It has its moments.”

  “Can I pretend to be your PA and come along?” Suzy asked.

  Yet another pause. A long one.

  “That was a joke,” she said. “I love abandoned buildings, but I promise I wasn’t trying to invite myself. My days of overstepping my bounds are firmly behind us.”

  “No, I wasn’t offended. Not at all. I was going to say, I could check with the property manager. I can’t imagine they’d care if an extra person came along, as long as they have fair warning, to bring a second waiver and hard hat or whatever.”

  She frowned, considering it. “Really?”

  “I may be the shyest person in the world, but even I would have suggested we have coffee, if we’re going to be in the same city. If you wanted to, that is.”

  “I’ll only have coffee with you if it’s after we tour a decrepit old haunted mill, thanks.”

  “Fair enough . . . Pittsburgh? This whole time, we’ve been in the same state?”

  “I’d have mentioned it earlier, except I didn’t want to look creepy for knowing where you lived.”

  “I’m easily Googled.”

  “I knew before I knew your name, actually. When I was toying with that other invitation . . . God, this is terrible of me, but I got your IP address through our webmaster. That sounds so stalkery, saying it now.”

  “You say that as though we met in a Bible-study chat room.”

  She smiled. “Still.”

  “I don’t want you beating yourself up about that anymore. I thought your offer was very kind. Very bold, and more than a little shocking, but fundamentally kind. And infinitely flattering.”

  “I’ll stop raking myself over the coals, then.”

  “Good. And . . . and I would like to meet. It’d be nice to see a familiar face. Normally when I’m in a strange city I come up with a hundred excuses to play hermit in my hotel room. Hmm, there’s a theme developing.”

  “That’ll never do. How long are you in town?”

  “One full day, plus the evening I arrive, and the morning after.”

  “Well, I’m up for whatever. Coffee, drinks, dinner, breakfast.” Or all four. She’d give a lesser limb to hang out with John in real life—easily the most interesting man she’d met in ages. Easily the most potent and unexpected crush she’d suffered, even before she’d discovered he wasn’t a woman. The power of words.

  “You just tell me when you’re free,” she said, “what sort of place you’d like to go, and I’ll pick you up and take you there.”

  “That’d be very nice. Thank you.”

  “I can’t wait. And if that invite to the abandoned mill wasn’t just talk . . .”

  “No, no, I’ll ask my contact. I promise. It’d be nice to have company. Just promise you’ll pester the person giving the tour with a hundred questions. I want all the details I can get.”

  “Deal.” And what a perfect outing for a first not-quite-date—more interactive than a movie, and they’d have loads to talk about, after. If they didn’t wind up talking about sex, that was, as they so often seemed to.

  “Which day is the tour?” she asked, moving to the computer desk.

  “Saturday. I’m meeting the manager at one thirty, I believe.”

  She opened the Mr. and Mrs. Parks admin software and checked the calendar. They had a client on Friday afternoon and another late on Sunday, but Saturdays they took off.

  “Works for me,” she said. “And I’m free Friday after seven, and most of Sunday, too.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Lucky, lucky you,” she teased. “Would you like to get a drink on Friday night, maybe? We could keep it low-key. Just meet at your hotel’s bar or something.”

  “Actually, I was going to ask you for a bar recommendation.”

  “Sure. What sort of ambience do you like?”

  “Not for me—for Jacob Russo. He’d be on the hunt for some dark hole-in-the-wall, the sort of place where people go to get left alone to drown their sorrows.”

  “Hmm . . . I can’t think of anywhere off the top of my head—my personal favorite haunt is a karaoke bar. But Meyer would know.” He’d been scraped off the floor of most every drinking establishment in the city, and even now, teetotaling, he spent at least two nights a week on a stool, cock-teasing dudes off of Grindr. “So, like, a shitty townie bar?”

  “Yes, precisely. Well, old townies.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “In Pittsburgh proper. Um, something with ‘mansion’ in the name. I’d have to check. My publicist arranged it.”

  “The Mansions on Fifth?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Oh, classy. That’s not far from me at all. I’ll find us someplace.”

  “Thank you. And thank you in advance for not spiking my drink and dragging me to the aforementioned karaoke bar.”

  “Hey, now, I never made that promise.”

  “You’ll be signing two waivers, then.”

  His tone gave Suzy a hot little zap—he’d changed, since they’d begun talking. Changed a lot. Not merely because they’d gone from typing to video chat to phone calls, but just the fact that he joked with her now. She relaxed him, she thought. Self-described as painfully shy, but here they were ribbing like old friends, not a jot of anxiety in his voice.

  “I’m excited,” she admitted aloud.

  “Well, good. The mill looks fascinating. It’s going to be the big climactic scene in the book, and I’m eager to see it in person, imagine how the action will play out.”

  “Not just that. I’m excited to meet you.”

  “Oh. Um, thank you.”

  “You’re not like anybody I’ve ever met. And the way we’ve met is definitely not like how I’ve met any other friend.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Meyer might kill me, but to hell with him.”

  “Why would he kill you?”

  “He thinks I’m crazy for getting as attached to you as I have—back when I still thought you were a woman, that is, and I’m sure this will just be the icing on his cake of disbelief.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” she added, catching the deflated pitch of his tone. “He just thinks it’s unprofessional. Which it totally is. Plus he just doesn’t really do attachment, or rarely does. Falling instantly in lust with somebody—that he gets. Infatuation. But I think if I tried to explain friend-crushes to him he’d look at me like I was speaking Hamster.”

  “I doubt anyone’s had a friend-crush on me before. I hope I won’t disappoint you. These last few conversations aside, I can be tremendously awkward. Not in a charming way, either. But you have a way of drawing me out that very few people ever have. So I’m hopeful.”

  “Good. And don’t forget—there’s always alcohol.”

  Another laugh. “Gosh, it’s nearly nine thirty. I haven’t written a single word today.”

  She gasped dramatically. “Pants on fire, John Lindsay. You said you did your work.”

  “I said I did ‘enough.’ Which happened to be nothing. That’s half a lie, at best. I was too nervous to write anything coherent. And I really ought to get to work soon; I owe my editor sample chapters by Wednesday. Though this has been
lovely, really.”

  “I’m glad you decided to chat.”

  “Me too.”

  “If you give it some thought and realize I’m crazy and don’t want to meet me next weekend, no worries.”

  “If I decided that, it would be my social anxiety talking, purely.”

  “Also remedied handily with alcohol,” she said.

  “I’m detecting a theme.”

  “Anyhow, I’ll let you get to work. It was nice talking again, John. Really nice.” Really, really, really nice.

  “You too. Should I call you when I get into town on Friday, to arrange when and where to meet?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Will do, then. I’m taking the train. It’s usually on time.”

  “Need a lift from the station?”

  “No, thanks. I’d rather meet you once I’ve had a chance to freshen up, as it were.”

  “Raid the minibar,” she translated.

  “No, no. I’ll let you glimpse me undiluted, first.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. Truly,” she added, letting him hear her voice go soft, earnest. She had no doubt she’d feel as nervous as the self-described social hermit in the hours leading up to their in-person meeting.

  “This has been nice,” John said through a little sigh. “Thank you.”

  “As good as our usual Tuesday dates?”

  “Yes. Different, but just as nice.”

  A different sort of intimacy, she thought. “Agreed. Well, I better say good-bye first. Good-bye, John. Good night, good luck with your work.”

  “Thank you, I’ll need it. Enjoy the rest of your evening. See you Friday, I suppose.”

  “And how. Night.”

  “Good night.”

  With a pang of disappointment, she hit END. She missed his voice immediately.

  “Fuck, I like him. I like him, like him.” What a terrible idea. What a terrible, foolish, inevitable idea. She opened her messaging app and plugged in Meyer’s contact. Just talked to John Lindsay. He’s in town next weekend and I’m totally meeting him.

  She could guess Meyer’s response—something to the tune of, “You’re an idiot.” It arrived just minute later, but her prediction was way off.