I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Read online

  “I don’t know girls, to be judged like that – all the time? On what you look like, and not who you are? I get that enough with my skin color. It’s not fun.” I give them my best look of experience, like I’m one of the wise people who answer questions from snowy mountaintops.

  One of them mutters under her breath, “Whatever,” not trying to disguise her disdain. The other leans in to her friend and agrees, “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Either I missed my mark, or my wisdom is lost on these two. Teenagers think they know everything.

  Normally I’d keep my mouth shut and write them off, go back to staring forward and waiting for my stop, but when I hear them share a knowing giggle and a look, one that clearly says I’m crazy and old – and I’m only twenty-nine! – agitation gets the best of me and I can’t help but say, “You know what?! Fuck you guys.”

  Their jaws drop open as the bags on their shoulders sway from the speeding corner. They’ve got that freaked out look I’ve seen on people’s faces when I’m angry. But I don’t care right now. Both the little twats are holding onto poles and I hope they’re covered in germs like Amber says they are.

  “You heard me. I’m giving you a piece of knowledge and you giggle in my face, and act like I can’t see you being rude? Least you could do is wait to talk about me behind my back. I mean, really. You think you know things? You know zip. Buckle up, girls.” The train lurches as though to prove my point. “Life ain’t gonna be what you think it is.” The hissing sound of the door opening behind me, pulls my attention – this is my stop – but I hold their eyes prisoner for a powerful extra second, then turn and glide off the train right before the doors close again.

  When I walk up the stairs and out into the streets of Manhattan, my phone lights up with a text from Jason: Lose him.

  I talk to the text like he can hear me, walking as I squeeze my jacket tighter against the chilled night air. “I’m sorry Jason, but you’ll go before he does. Life is short and this chick ain’t giving up yet.” I tuck it away and head home.

  A Couple Weeks Later

  “He was a complete gentleman for two dates and then on the third one, BOOM. Off came the hatches. Clothes gone. Inhibitions tossed!” Jess leans back in her chair, triumphant, as the server refills her coffee on the way to another table that’s been waiting longer. Jess has got her red hair tied up in a messy bun. We’re all wearing comfy Sunday clothes; bundled up, because it’s cold out. Amber and I are sitting opposite her, as she prefers to face us when she talks, not turn to the side. I don’t care. I’m just glad we’re in chairs and inside. We’ve finally gotten seated at the very packed Café Cluny in the West Village. I’m going to get the poached egg and short rib hash, and my mouth waters just thinking about it. I’m starving. The girls are still undecided, but it doesn’t matter because the server is slammed and won’t be back to take our order for who knows how long.

  Brunch is a must-do in Manhattan. Lines form around the block for some of the best places, and it’s worth the wait. Partly because of the delicious food, mostly because of the company. It’s a great way to spend time with your friends, that doesn’t include booze. (Unless you get the mimosa, which – I won’t lie – sometimes we get.)

  This is the time when we dish about how our Saturday night went….

  “My sex life is dry as a bone,” Amber announces.

  …Or how our Saturday night didn’t go.

  Both Jess and I look at her, all sympathy and silence. Then Jess wrinkles her nose and asks, “What about that guy, Diego?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee and shrugs. “Emphasis on ‘go’. Diego a go go.”

  I smile and touch her back, then sit forward and breathe on my own mug, to get the yummy liquid to cool the fuck down. I don’t know how these girls are already drinking theirs. I must have a sensitive tongue. Oh, well I guess lattes aren’t as hot as black coffee with cinnamon in it.

  Amber says, “You know what? I don’t think I’m ready to meet anyone serious yet. I mean, if he walked right up to me and said, ‘Hi, I’m your future husband. Can I talk to you a second?’ I’d probably say ‘hell no! Do you know how busy I am? I don’t have time to be cuddling on a couch and watching The Godfather over and over.”

  I snort, and lean forward on my elbows. “Why do all men love The Godfather so much?”

  “It’s a good movie,” Jess admits, and then adds, “but really… I agree. Why are they so obsessed with it?”

  Amber chimes in, “That and Big Lebowski!” We all nod and agree and Amber mumbles, “All men adore The Dude. But really, cut your hair and get your head out of your ass.”

  Jess says, “Very few men can rock the long hair.”

  I blow on my coffee, thinking of Michael. “Only some can, but when they can… it’s so hot.”

  Amber leans back. “True. When Brad Pitt has his hair long, I want to rip his clothes off.”

  Jess crinkles her nose. “Not me. He looks like a stoner with it like that. Or a surfer. And surfers aren’t very proactive in their work lives.”

  I ball-up a napkin and throw it at her face. “How many surfers do you know, Jess?” I ask, amused.

  Jess un-balls the napkin, lays it on her lap, and says, “How’re things at the studio?” like she’s reading my mind. I’m speechless for a second because I think she must be asking about Michael again... but then I remember I’m a painter. She’s just asking about my work. Add becoming paranoid to my long list of flaws.

  Amber looks over and takes another sip of her latte, waiting.

  “Great. Really great. I’ve being working a lot. Every morning this week, actually.” I don’t add, because Michael is there at night.

  Amber yells out, so excited. “Jess! Let’s go there after this today and check out her stuff!”

  Jess literally jumps in her seat, and my stomach? It does a cartwheel into nausea-land. I’m scared to have them come over. I don’t want them to see what I’ve been working on… not yet. What if they hate my style? What if I catch disappointment on their faces?

  “Oh my God! I love that idea. Love it. Yes. As soon as we’re done.”

  “Um… ladies. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  They’re looking at the menus again, all fake innocence and deliberate avoidance.

  I run my finger around the rim of my mug, thinking how I can get out of this. I could tell them I’m scared, but they see me as confident and sure of myself in all aspects. I don’t want to fall down in their esteem. I don’t want to be flawed. “I’m not going there today. My partner is going to be there. It’s his time today.” Now that is a damn lie, but they don’t know that.

  Amber’s face falls. “Oh no. Awww. Bummer.”

  Jess suggests, “Well, then we’d finally get a chance to meet him. You’ve been hiding this guy like he’s some secret you’re keeping from us.” She leans forward like a mystery is afoot and whispers, “He’s not a three-hundred-year-old hunchback magician who’s captured your heart and keeps it a jar… is he?”

  Amber grins at the image and looks at me with eyebrows so high that if they got any higher, they’d be in the space shuttle. I lean in and whisper back, looking from one to the other. “Yes, that’s exactly what he is. And if I bring you there, you’ll try to steal my heart back. But then the curse would be solidified forever! And my heart would be lost for all eternity.”

  Jessica thinks about this. “Oooo, that’d be bad.”

  I lean back and say, “It’d be very bad,” in my normal voice. Truth is, though? I don’t like how close she got about the heart held hostage part. “He’s very serious about his work and he doesn’t like to be interrupted. That’s all.”

  Amber gets it. “I hate it when people show up at my office unannounced.”

  Jessica agrees, “Yeah. I guess I think of what I do as work… and what you do as play. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. He’s not that interesting. He’s just a guy who’s giving me a break on rent for stud
io space.”

  Amber picks up on this and points out something I hadn’t thought of before: “Then he must really believe in your work.”

  This warms my heart unexpectedly. Does he? I hadn’t thought of the possibility. I bite my lip, thinking about it, and pick up my mug. I offer to them, “Another time though. Let’s plan ahead, and I’ll make sure he’s not there.”

  Amber smiles and drops it. Jess still looks like she wants to go, but has no argument to make. The subject is dropped… or so I had hoped. Jess’s frown vanishes and she says, “You should have a show soon! Then everyone can see your greatness!”

  My stomach rolls over again and I take a deep breath and crinkle up my nose, make a tssss sound like a ball deflated slowly, shaking my head. “I don’t think I’m ready yet, Jess.”

  Amber inspects my face, her intelligent blue eyes inspecting me. “You’re going to be great Nicole. You don’t have to be scared.”

  “I’m not scared!” I look from one to the other, but they see right through me. And here I thought I was hiding it.

  “Is he really there today?” Jess asks, and Amber looks at me to inspect again.

  “Yes! Yes! He’s really there! I’m not lying so you don’t see my stuff before I’m ready. God, you guys – stop!” I grin, but they’re not sold. I’ll stick to my guns though and…

  “Nicole!” a male voice interrupts. I look up to see who just saved me, but it takes me a second to recognize Danny, Grant’s friend.

  “Danny! Oh, hi!” I put down my coffee and stand to give him a hug. I stay standing next to him, practically looking him in the eye since he’s not much taller than I am. Nice body, though.

  “I was just leaving,” he tells me apologetically, and I turn to follow his eyes to a pretty brunette who’s looking at me as she’s walking to the front door. She’s obviously wondering who the hell I am and why hasn’t Danny stayed locked at her side like a good boy?

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’d ask you to join us.” Would I? Maybe…

  “I didn’t see you sitting here, or I would have come over earlier,” he says, with that same warm smile I so appreciated when Grant was being a bully.

  “We just got here. Oh, these are my girlfriends, Amber and Jessica.” They wave from where they sit at the table.

  “Hi,” he says to them, “Danny. Nice to meet you. The food is amazing here, isn’t it?”

  Jess nods and Amber says, “We’ve only been here once, but we loved it,” and nods, too – all smiles and elven cuteness.

  Danny turns back to me. “Well, it was great running into you. I was sorry you had to leave so early that night. Oh! Did you sell the painting?”

  “What painting?” I ask, searching my memory. Oh, shit. “Oh – the painting. I didn’t. The buyer didn’t show. He was coming over from Williamsburg and the trains were off that night and he got frustrated.” This is the problem with lying. It breeds more lies. Blech.

  “Well, next time. It was really good to see you.” He gives me a warm hug again, which I hold and look at the brunette through the window as I do it, just because I don’t like the look she’s giving me. He says goodbye to the girls and leaves us there to talk about him.

  As soon as he’s out of earshot, I sit back down and we all lower our heads and bring them in together to talk in a hushed conspiratorial tone.

  Jess first. “He’s cute!”

  Amber next. “And he’s obviously into you.”

  Me last. “You think so? He is cute, isn’t he?”

  Them together. “Soooooo Cute. So cute.” Their heads are both bobbing yes, like I should go grab him right now. I reach up and push them together with mine for a head-hug.

  “I love you, guys.”

  When we separate, Jess asks me, “There wasn’t any buyer for a painting was there?”

  “No, I used that as an excuse to escape Grant on our last – and I do mean last – date.” I pick up the menu, even though I already know what I’m getting. Why do I do that? I set it back down as Amber looks at me.

  “I saw you do that once. Use an imaginary buyer who wanted to see a painting, to get out of a place. You better not do that with us.”

  I glance from one to the other of my very best friends in the whole world. “Me? I’d never.”

  Just as the server comes up to finally take our order and get our stomachs to stop growling, Jess balls up her napkin again and throws it at my face, but I catch it. My dad wasn’t an accountant, after all.

  At His…Our… Studio

  Weeks Later

  I haven’t seen Michael in over a month. I’ve been good… or he’s not been there when I’ve dropped by. It’s been too long, so tonight something overcame me and I find myself standing outside the studio door with the key in my hand. I let myself in and call up to him, “Michael?” No answer. Walking up, I take a look around. I can see from the shine on the confetti-like paint droplets below the easel, that they’re still wet.

  He was just here.

  I must have just missed him. Again, I won’t be able to see his face, hear his voice, smell him. Even worse – like fate is teasing me – one of the cream-colored candles still glows with a low flame, the wax surrounding it disintegrated down to an inch.

  “Michael?” Instantly I hope against hope that he didn’t hear the longing. I heard it. But he’s not here, and only silence bounces back. I should have called, told him I was coming. Maybe we could have worked beside each other, talked… anything. A month is too long. I feel like I could claw my eyes out.

  I pick up a blank canvas and prop it against a wall. I lied to myself when I thought I was coming here to work, that it would be better if he weren’t here so I could focus. It’s never better when he’s not here.

  Lose him, Jason whispers in my memory. “Shut up, Jason.”

  I step over to get a look at what he was working on and the second I see it, my breath catches from shock. He’s painted a woman with her hair wild, her skin vibrant and dark, and an aura surrounding her. The painting is mostly is in reds, gold, and burnt sienna. Tiny sparkles of sweat form in the hidden parts of me as I inspect the lines because the more I look, the more I am dumbfounded. Is this chaos of frenzied strokes, me? One time I saw him and my hair was a shock of tight curls, natural, big and wild. He’d said he liked it that way, that it suited me more than straightening it. “Don’t try to be like everyone else. You’re different. Be that.” I listened, and more and more I wore it wild. I’m wearing it that way tonight even. Probably because I wanted to make him happy, more than anything else.

  This painting - the raw passion of it – it’s like he’s been missing me as much as I’ve missed him. Maybe my break from him hurt him as much as it hurt me? I reach out and touch the canvas, feel a drop of wet paint cool the tip of my finger. I close my eyes and imagine him here, propelled forward by inspiration, unable to stop until he finished this portrait of…

  “Nicole.”

  I yank my finger back and my eyes shoot open to see him standing at the top of the stairs. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I see that.” He strolls to me, the leather jacket he’s wearing over jeans and black t-shirt, is the only thing clear of smudges and specks. He takes it off and lays it on the couch, the muscles of his back pulling his t-shirt tight for an instant. He turns and walks to me. “What do you think?”

  The spicy scent of him wafts to me, making my body react. I hold his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  His eyes narrow. He comes to stand beside me, to see what I see. “You think so?” he asks, looking at it with me. It feels more like a test than a question.

  I ask, “Is it me?”

  He turns to me and like his body is a magnet, mine turns to him, too, and I touch his face. He reaches up and touches my cheek, looking at it like it’s the softest, most interesting cheek he’s ever seen. Is tonight the night? Is that why he painted me…

  He leans in and gives my cheek a kiss that is so tender, I want to cry. The tip of my nose get
s a kiss, too, soft and gentle as a butterfly. Then my lips feel the pressure of his, and I slide my arms around his neck as our kiss builds. I press my body into his, needing so much to be close to him. The pressure impassions him. He kisses me harder, presses his tongue against mine, licking it sensually. I feel tingles and sensations moving through my body as we explore each other’s mouths. The feelings build until we’re feverish. Please ease this ache I feel every time I see you, Michael. We’re gasping and moaning and I know now that this is the night. His hands travel around me with a hunger that matches my own. I’ve waited long enough. We’ve waited long enough. We grind our hips together like two people who haven’t touched another human being in years, moaning and kissing until he lets out a growl and releases my mouth, my ass, my body…

  Releases…me.

  My eyes fly open to see him retreating from me, now more than five feet away and growing. He says over his shoulder, heading for the stairs, “Not tonight.”

  I let out a sound of aching that I’ve never heard myself make before, confused and outside of my own body in disbelief! As he disappears from view and only the sound of his feet departing can be heard, I run over and yell down, “When?!! For God’s sake, Michael – WHEN?!”

  His voice is huskier than normal, his eyes troubled and angry as he looks up and says firmly, “Not tonight,” like a teacher to an impatient student who’s come so far.

  He leaves, the door opening and closing with all of the weight of everything that lies between us. I yell out, “Why do you do this!!?” The silence that follows, the questions he’s left behind, the absence of him… it crushes me and I crumble to the ground.

  “I will not see him again,” I tell myself, aloud. Breathing heavily, I look up and see the mesmerizing painting of the woman, the woman who must be me. The colors of it dazzle and anger me. I stare at it from where I sit until something happens inside me. Aloud to the now burnt-out candle, to the painting above me, to the empty room, to everything, I whisper hoarsely, fighting back tears, “You want to break me? You want me to become stronger? You’re doing both. And I’m beginning to hate you for it.”