13
WHILE SAM WAS SPEAKING at a community center in Toms River, Mercedes spent the afternoon writing a story for her blog about a desperate housewife stuck alone in the house, with no one to turn to but the plumber. It wasn’t her best work, but she figured it was good enough. Her mind was occupied with other issues.
That evening, when Sam got home from the show, Mercedes decided it was time for a talk. No longer were they just sharing a bed. She was spending days here, plural. Nights here, plural, and now even his father knew it.
If Sam wasn’t careful, soon the world would know it, and Mercedes wasn’t ready for the nuclear fallout of that. Right now, the only nuclear fallout she had to deal with was her own, and that was more than enough. They weren’t co-habiting, but it was that leaving your toothbrush moment, and Mercedes had never left a toothbrush anywhere but her own bathroom sink. Not even when visiting her mother.
There were certain boundaries that she didn’t want to cross, and a toothbrush indicated permanence to the situation. It indicated that tomorrow would come, and they would still be together. Her toothbrush would be where she left it, and Sam would be where she left him as well.
And in the current environment, it would make sense that she went back to her own apartment.
She followed him into the kitchen, and watched as he fed Max.
“How did the speech go this afternoon?”
“Good.”
“Good is great,” she said, trying her best to be happy and enthusiastic. Sam saw through it.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t think I should leave my toothbrush.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “You don’t need to leave your toothbrush. I’ve already bought you a toothbrush.”
“What about my clothes?”
Sam grinned.
“Not funny,” she answered.
“Definitely not funny, and I should have known better than to convey levity on such a pressing issue. But actually, your nudity is not an issue, not because it’s not a very seductive issue, but because you have clothes here. And while we’re on the subject of clothes, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but shopping is much cheaper in Jersey. Head out to the mall, the sales tax rate on clothing and shoes sold in New Jersey is zero. Zero. What’s it in New York? Twenty, thirty percent?”
“Zero percent tax? Shoes, too?” Mentally she started doing the math, and although math wasn’t her best subject—English always had been—she knew the fast-track to calculating sales tax. On a hundred dollar pair of shoes—
—no, she wasn’t going to be sidetracked, not even by the siren’s call of shopping. “We need to discuss this,” she stated firmly.
“Discuss what?”
“This,” she answered, shooting him a meaningful look.
“Another ambiguous pronoun. And you call yourself a writer?”
“I’m being serious.”
He sighed, stared, and then sighed again. “What are you afraid of?”
She looked around the room. The dog, the coffeemaker, the little bank and insurance magnets on the refrigerator. Everything here was designed for long-term usage. No fast food, no disposable anything. This wasn’t where she belonged.
“Sam, you’re running for Congress. Congress. This isn’t the town council. What about all those little old ladies in Hackensack, who are shocked, shocked that you’re shacking up with some sleazy smut-writer. There is no happy ending. One day you’ll wake up and go for some blond Sunday school teacher, and imagine all the cute tow-headed boys that the two of you could have together, and then you’ll look at me, my nondescript dark hair, my sex blog which uses words like penis and clit on a regular basis, and you say ‘I can’t do this.’ And then where will I be, Sam? Left out on the street without a toothbrush, that’s where. I need to go back to my apartment. I don’t like relationships. I don’t mind the sex, but anything more is setting me up to get hurt.”
“You’ve had relationships before.”
“With jerks, yes. It’s an automatic safety, sort of like playing Monopoly with a kid. You go in, start the game, and you know you’re going to lose, so it doesn’t matter. Being with you isn’t playing Monopoly, Sam. It’s not a game. It’s the big leagues. And if I’m stepping into the big leagues, I can’t do it knowing I’ll end up being hurt.”
“I won’t hurt you, Mercedes.”
“There’s not a guarantee with this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing? You mean a relationship?”
“We’re not in a relationship,” she corrected him. “We’re having wild, passionate sex.”
“I’m sorry. If we’re talking about toothbrushes, we’re in a relationship. Do you mind cooking tomorrow? I eventually want to try that ziti.”
“Sure.”
“See, you’re going to cook. We’re in a relationship.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“You cook for everyone you have wild, passionate sex with?”
“No.”
He gave her a smug smile.
“I can’t argue with you, Sam. You’re a professional. You get people to say the wrong things all the time. You can’t count my misstatements against me.”
“I don’t want to argue, Mercedes. I like being with you, no, I love being with you. I want to have wild, passionate sex with you. I want talk-time with you. I want to understand your belief system, if you have a belief system, and if you don’t it’s okay. I like knowing you’re there to talk to. It’s very strange, but I didn’t recognize that I was lonely until now. Not that Max is chopped liver, and speaking of Max—look, even Max is already attached. Are you going to break my dog’s heart?”
At the sound of his name, Max looked up, gazed at her with big puppy-dog eyes, and Mercedes didn’t want to see that bright light where people never returned. She didn’t want refrigerator magnets, or toothbrushes, or casserole dishes full of ziti, or puppy-dog eyes, or the man who made her want every single one of those things. Those things terrified her more than airplane crashes, terrorism, and giant man-eating sharks combined.
“Sam.”
He pointed to Max. “Look at that face. How can you deny that face?”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. Stay here. Stay with me. I’m not your father, Mercedes. Sometimes you have to trust.”
Trust. Now there was a four-letter word. Men weren’t designed for trust, they were designed for other four-letter words. “We’re going to see Tony tonight?” she asked, deciding to change the subject to something less emotionally upheavalish.
“Just at a bar. No pressure. Very casual. You don’t have to take your toothbrush. But maybe you can give him some pointers on relationships.”
Mercedes glared.
“You think anyone will notice you?” she asked.
“No, people don’t notice me, it won’t be a problem.”
“Sam, be serious.”
“I am.”
“What about the reporters?”
“They dog me at the studio, at the talks, but I don’t think Sam Porter going to a bar will make CNN.”
Mercedes crossed her arms across her chest. “I don’t know.”
“Tony needs you,” he said.
“Fine.”
“So, about this story you wrote today. The housewife. Alone. The plumber who comes to fix the showerhead. For the record, I’d feel a whole lot more secure in this thing that isn’t a relationship, this wild, passionate sex, not-a-relationship-thing, if you didn’t indulge in sexual fantasies that involved my father.”
“Fiction. Hello?”
“Normally I’d buy that line, but you wrote about me, and that was fiction, and yet not. So I know there’s a gray area.”
“Your father is not in the gray area, Sam. You’re the only one in the gray area.”
“But why a plumber then? Why not, let’s say, a pizza delivery boy?”
“Have you ever seen a pizza delivery boy? They’re always scrawny and skinny, and I’m sorry, my imagination doesn’t work that hard.”
“But plumbers are sexy?”
“Oh, yeah, much more so than pizza delivery boys.”
“My father is a plumber, Mercedes. He’s been a plumber for over fifty years. You’re freaking me out.”
“This is not The Graduate, Sam. Swear.”
“Okay,” he said, doubt in his voice.
“If it will make you feel better, no more plumbers. Maybe painters next time.”
“Painters would be okay. I’d feel much better about that. You really told my Dad that you’re my interior decorator?”
“What was I supposed to tell him?”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “Fine. Let’s go, before you decide to decorate the house in pink.”
THEY MET TONY AT A SPORTS bar in Jersey. An old dive with a crowd of regulars who were more interested in the basketball game than a Congressional candidate. They found a booth in the corner, and Sam took over the introductions before Mercedes could step in. “Tony, this is Mercedes. Mercedes is the—” Sam stopped in mid-sentence, his tongue wrapped around the words he was going to say. Woman I’m going to marry. “—my girlfriend,” he corrected smoothly. “If she tells you anything else, it’s a lie.”
Mercedes looked peeved. “I wasn’t going to lie.”
Tony studied her, rubbing his jaw. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Sam knew where this awkward moment was going. And he knew it was something he would have to learn to live with—starting now. “She’s been on the show.”
“Ah….” Tony started, before comprehension dawned. “Oh. The writer.”
“Yes, I’m the writer,” said Mercedes smiling tightly.
Tony looked at Sam, and gave him a thumbs up.
Sam rolled his eyes.
“How are you doing?” Mercedes asked Tony, neatly dodging any more probing questions. Sam shot her a look of gratitude.
“Good. You’re the one who wrote my profile, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
Tony shook his head in amazement. “You wouldn’t believe. Females are interested in me.”
“So you’ve been out on some dates?” asked Sam.
“No. I haven’t responded back to anyone. I don’t know what to say, what to do. And what if they don’t like me? I printed some of the e-mails out, maybe you can help?”
Mercedes patted Tony on the back. “And of course we will. Pick one out of the pile that you like.”
Tony pulled out a sheet of paper. “She’s in her mid-forties, has two kids, and is looking for a good time only.”
Mercedes tapped a finger against her cheek, the wheels turning in her head. “Okay, here’s the real deal. She’s telling you that she doesn’t want a relationship because she’s been burned before. Older, got two kids, the first husband, or father of her kids was probably a total jerk, and she’s afraid that you’re a jerk, too. However, she’s hoping against hope that you’re not a jerk, because actually she really wants the whole enchilada. But she’s got a lot of baggage with her. She has a ready-made family. That’s a tough selling point for a lot of men. Are you prepared for a ready-made family, Tony?”
Tony laughed.
“Then you need to walk away. You’ve got to put her needs before yours, and if she’s going to get hurt, you don’t even venture into the woods. Got it?”
“But she seems nice, and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”
“Aha! Emotional trap number one. The pity-relationship. Don’t go there, Tony.”
Tony looked at Sam. “You think?”
“She’s the expert,” he said, with a pointed stare at Mercedes.
She glared back.
Tony drew a red X through the paper.
“Next one?”
“This one is thirty-two years old, never married, is worried she won’t ever find her Prince Charming. Those are the words she used, ‘Prince Charming,’ can you believe it? And she’s attractive, likes jazz, and wine—”
“Whoa,” interrupted Sam. “Jazz and wine? Tony, do you think you can do jazz and wine? Don’t you think you should be yourself?”
“But what if I like jazz and wine?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“See. You have to know what you want. You have to know yourself. You have to think, ‘Okay, this is what I like and if it’s what I like, then that’s what it’s going to be.’”
Mercedes made a face. “That doesn’t even make sense, Sam.”
“It did to me. Tony needs to know his own mind, and have faith in his own decisions, and not second-guess himself. I mean, come on. Jazz and wine? Jazz, okay. Wine, okay. But both? Together? He’d be comatose in two days.”
“But what if he hadn’t tried jazz, or he hadn’t tried wine. What if he tries it, and he likes it, but if he hadn’t tried it, then he would have never known.”
“I hate jazz,” said Tony. “Wine’s okay, but I want it with food. If I’m going to sit alone and drink, I want beer.”
Mercedes heaved a sigh. “Fine. No jazz or wine. She’s probably a supermodel or something.”
“No, I’ve seen her picture.”
“Let’s move on,” said Mercedes.
“Next up is a temp worker. She’s young. New to the city, and is looking for someone who can show her around. She’s not sure if she wants a relationship or not, but thinks if it works out, then it should.”
“There,” said Sam. “You should write her back. She’s sensible. Not fixated on one thing or another, but open to options and opportunities, since no one knows when options and opportunities might come up.”
“I think she sounds flighty and unreliable,” answered Mercedes, shaking her head. “She’s too young to know what she wants. She moved to New York to make her way in the world, so she’s ambitious, but she’s going to be shallow and have her head turned by the first hunky guy that comes along.”
Tony frowned. “I didn’t see that in what she said. Did you see that?”
Mercedes nodded. “Oh, yeah, but you have to know how to read between the lines. It’s there. Young. Flighty. Unreliable. Happens all the time.”
“Not to disagree, but to disagree, I don’t think you should slap all young adults with a label of flighty and unreliable. I know some young people who are responsible and reliable.”
Mercedes looked at him skeptically. “I am not responsible.”
Sam coughed. “Actually, I was speaking of my stage manager, Kristin. She’s young, but she’s very reliable. She’s usually at the studio before me, and completely un-flighty.”
“You think I’m flighty and irresponsible?”
“I think you just said you weren’t responsible.”
“You think I’m not responsible?”
“I didn’t say that. You said that.”
“I’m responsible. I’m as responsible as the next person.”
“I know you’re responsible. You’re not flighty and you’re pretty reliable.”
“You don’t think I’m reliable?”
“I think you’re reliable,” said Tony. “I mean, you were five minutes late, but that could be because of traffic, and I don’t think people should be labeled as unreliable because a deer hurtles through someone’s car on the Palisades.”
“There wasn’t traffic, or a deer. We were late because of Sam.”
“Now wait a minute. You started that discussion, not me.”
“But you wanted to finish it.”
“Well, yes, I did. We couldn’t just leave in the middle of a discussion.”
Tony’s eyes got big. “You guys were having a fight?”
“It was a discussion, not a fight,” said Mercedes.
“I wasn’t fighting. You were fighting,” answered Sam, because he didn’t fight. He argued for a living, and he knew about fights, and they hadn’t been having one.
“No,” snapped Mercedes. “I was discussing. Did I raise my voice? I don’t think so.”
“But you were disagreeing,” Sam pointed out.
“There can be disagreement in discussions. It doesn’t have to be a fight.”
“A discussion with disagreement is a debate.”
“All right then. It was a debate.”
“You guys were having a debate?” asked Tony.
“Debates are allowed,” Mercedes replied, giving Tony a motherly smile.
And right then, Sam knew.
He loved Mercedes.
There, he admitted it.
He loved her vulnerability, he loved her strength. He loved her ability to put everything out on the table and not worry about it.
He loved her courage, he loved her mind, he loved her body.
Sam had always had an optimistic streak in him, and he wanted to believe that he could work out his relationship with Mercedes, convince her they had a future together, and yeah, win a House seat, too.
Maybe he couldn’t have all of those things, but he would give up a seat in Congress before he was going to give up her.
She glanced over, saw him watching, and he smiled.
Tony looked at the paper and scratched his head. “So what’s the verdict on young and flighty?”
“No,” voted Mercedes.
“Yes,” voted Sam.
They continued through the choices for Tony, and finally, the selection had been pared down to a mere five, but Tony still seemed worried.
Tony stared into his beer. “I haven’t been out on a date in years,” he admitted.
“Don’t worry. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be,” said Sam.
“I was with my wife for seventeen years. I thought that was meant to be.”
Mercedes smiled at Tony as if the world was going to be okay, as if happy endings were possible and Sam felt his heart squeeze tightly. “You have to try. If you love her, you have to try. If she loves you, really loves you, she’s going to try.” Mercedes looked at Sam, her eyes sparkling.
Then her lips curved up in a smile, and Sam knew that Mercedes was going to try.
THE NEXT MORNING, SAM MET Martin at the Four Seasons for breakfast. It was a room where movers and shakers congregated, so people knew they were movers and shakers. Sam saw some heads turn as he walked in. Martin had set up this on purpose.
Always needing to spin the appearance.
Sam shook his hand, and they sat down for business. This time, Sam was ready.
“I’ve listed my core principles. They won’t change. You can spin them however you want.”
Martin scanned the list. “What’s the funding for the arts?”
“I think schools need money for music and art education. I think math and science are still a priority, but they’re axing school arts programs all over the state.”
“But you’re campaigning on lower property taxes.”
“That, too.”
“You can’t have it all, Sam.”
“I refuse to believe there’s not a way.”
“Trust me, you can’t put this in a campaign speech.”
“Okay,” answered Sam, making a mental note to put it into a campaign speech. Possibly tomorrow.
“You saw the papers on Congressman Barnard today? Those promises he made two years ago are just starting to blow up in their faces.”
“Barnard is a wuss. No big loss.”
“Their loss is our gain.” Martin handed him some papers.
“Here’s what we’ve set up for the next two weeks. We’ll start easy, hit the northern part of the state first. You’ll get good exposure. After that, we’ll move further south. It’s less friendly territory for you, but I think with a few good quotes in the paper and some cheesy press shots, we can turn some heads. There’s a fund-raiser next weekend, and I’ve given you some bios of the people you want to be nice to. These people will fund your campaign if you let them, and I’m hoping we let them. Any questions?”
Sam took the papers from Martin, and tucked them away. “No.”
Martin wore a congenial smile, but his eyes were hard, appraising. “You’ve been very quiet. Anything I need to know? I’m in this to win, Sam, and I don’t like surprises.”
Sam met his eyes evenly. “I haven’t done anything for you to worry about, but I like my life, Martin, and if people are starting to comb through my garbage, I’m out.”
“Nah. Not for a seat in the House.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at the fund-raiser.”
TRIDENT WAS A HUGE, cavernous club on the Lower East Side. An old warehouse building with a tin roof and graffiti covered walls, but what it lacked in exterior design, it more than made up for in post-Apocalyptic style. Black and white videos played on the walls, and if a man looked closely, he would be shocked to realize that the videos were basically soft-porn. Skin flashed, but the images moved so quickly that a man wasn’t exactly sure what he was watching, but he kept looking, just to figure it out.
Sam shook his head, trying not to get turned on.
Interspersed were videos from the club floor, people trying to outshock each other to get their faces and bodies on the wall.
It was hedonistic, it was sexy.
Okay, he was getting turned on. Some things a man couldn’t fight.
Sam was going to have to kill Franco for this. Sam looked around, seeing everything that was wrong with America while Tony watched the surroundings with the look of a soldier in the demilitarized zone.
Everywhere there was something to see, something to shock. The women were all young. Way too young, and Sam felt the beginnings of a true midlife crisis approaching. He’d find Mercedes and they’d go someplace simpler, someplace where people could hear.
That was the moment when he spotted her and his throat closed up on him.
Holy moley.
The black leather dress fit her like a glove, a very tight, hand-crafted glove that helplessly maneuvered on every curve. A zipper ran the length of her, from the neck to the top of her thighs, and the zipper was undone about halfway between her breasts.
It was nothing overtly sordid, but a man looked and got ideas. Or at least Sam did.
“Hiya, Sam,” she said, coming up, just like an old friend. He hated the pretense, hated the idea that he couldn’t just take her hand, kiss her properly, or slip the zipper down just another half an inch, but no matter what he wanted, he knew it was a bad idea.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting. We should go somewhere…less.”
She laughed then. “More is good, Sam. Remember why you’re here,” she reminded him, with a meaningful glance in Tony’s direction. And she was right, Tony was watching the people on the dance floor, watching the videos on the wall, watching Mercedes with avid, avid interest.
Sam had the strong desire to jab Tony in the ribs, possibly hard enough to shove his eyes back into their sockets, but she would know, and get upset because he wasn’t a “modern man,” so he kept his hands to himself, hoping Tony would keep his hands to himself, too.
While he watched, she led his friend out onto the floor until they were swallowed up in a million throbbing people, engaged in an overt mating ritual that had lost any hint of subtlety.
Mercedes wasn’t dancing with Tony, more dancing around him, dancing through the crowd, her body beating in time to the heavy bass rhythm on the floor. She was completely uninhibited, twisting and writhing. When she saw someone she wanted to include in their circle, she moved around them, through them, until the circle enlarged.
Tony’s dance moves were a little outdated, but Mercedes was a good sport and didn’t mind at all. She would mimic whatever he was doing, and somehow, when she did it, it didn’t look outdated, it looked graceful and seductive. Tony, bless his heart, was having the time of his life.
And that was the purpose of this mind-altering exercise, Sam kept telling himself. He was a good friend. A great friend, he corrected himself. He was the Best. Friend. Ever. But Sam’s eyes kept on tracking back to Mercedes, who whirled like a dervish on the floor.
“Sam!”
He blinked at the sound of his name, one hundred percent certain that no one in the eighteen to thirty-four age group would recognize him. Someone slapped a hand on his back, and he turned to see Franco and a woman—most likely the girlfriend. “Franco?”
“Look at you! I didn’t think you’d actually come here, being a candidate and all. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“Marvelous,” drawled Sam.
“Where’s Tony?”
Sam pointed to the movie on the wall that showed Mercedes still dancing in rings around Tony. “I thought you were cooking tonight.”
“I knew this would be more fun. I wanted to see you with your face all scrunched up, trying to keep yourself calm and collected when faced with all this healthy human sexuality.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” muttered Sam.
“Mandy, this mellow example of wasted manhood is Sam Porter.”
“Hiya! You’re the TV guy?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he yelled back.
Right then, Tony and Mercedes came back. Tony’s face was flushed with excitement and sweat. If Sam were a good friend, he’d tell Tony that he was too old for this nonsense. Instead, Sam kept his mouth shut.
“Franco, Mandy, this is Mercedes. And Tony.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Mercedes. “I’m here with some friends of mine, they’re—” she pointed across the room “—on the far side, and then I took pity on these guys, because they didn’t know anybody.”
Sam rubbed his eyes. “Mercedes. It’s okay.”
She looked at Sam, looked at Franco, and then stuck out a hand to Mandy. “Hi, Mandy. How’re you? You look like you could use a drink. Can you use a drink? I know that I could use a drink. Let’s go get a drink, if that’s okay?”
She grabbed Mandy’s arm and led her toward the bar.
“Is she the hired gun?” asked Franco.
“Nah. She’s a friend.”
Franco leered. “You’ve got good taste in friends, Sam. An ever-expanding taste in friends. I approve. She’s a lot better than the last blonde you dated. Does she know where China is on a map?”
“Certainly. I think. I’m sure she does. She’s very bright.”
Then Franco snapped his fingers. “That’s the writer.”
“What writer?” asked Sam, pretending ignorance, which was not something he normally pretended, but right now ignorant seemed the best way to be.
“The sex books.”
“She writes fiction, yes. I wouldn’t call them sex books, though.”
“They’re full of sex?”
“Yes.”
Franco stayed silent.
“Yes, she writes the sex books,” admitted Sam.
“Does Charlie know about this?”
“He knows what she writes.”
“No, does he know that you’re nailing her?”
“My private life stays private, Franco.”
Franco flagged down a waiter and ordered Sam a drink, a stiff whiskey and water. “You’re going to need it.”
MERCEDES WAS HAVING AN amazing time. She liked clubs, she loved people, and she got a chance to help out one of Sam’s friends. It was a win-win-win. Tony was doing better. She’d worked to pull him out of his shell, although Sam wasn’t helping much. He stood, stared, his face immobile.
She went up to him, tugged on his shirt—the black one she picked out for him, she was pleased to note.
“If you’re not careful, people will think you’re a prude.”
“I am a prude. You should know that about me.”
“You can’t do bondage and still be a prude.”
His eyes got bigger. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about that.”
“Nobody can hear. And that’s around your dad. Family is different. You should dance,” she told him, crooking a finger in invitation.
“Don’t make me dance.”
“Why?”
“I’m a mature, intelligent human being, set apart from the animals by my ability to choose not to make a fool of myself in public.”
“You should dance,” she said, pulling his hand.
“You’re not listening to me, you’re just using that wicked mind-control look in your eyes to make me think that I could never make a fool out of myself.”
“You could never make a fool out of yourself,” she said, pulling him farther into the crowd, where he had to either move or be trampled.
And then he was dancing with her, watching her with hungry eyes as their bodies moved in perfect sync.
“This is not the behavior of a mature, intelligent human being. I look just as bad as Tony.”
“You’re not doing bad. For an old man,” she teased.
He caught her close against him, all that merciless, hard muscle pressed against her, breast to chest, thigh to the hard, thick, bulge that made her want to sink against him more. Her sex throbbed in time to the music, pulsing with a heavy beat of its own. Each time his hips moved against hers, she closed her eyes, her mind escaping to a place far away from the dance floor, far away from the public eye.
The public eye. She groaned in frustration. They were dancing closer than they should be. People might think this was taking compassionate conservatism a bit far.
She spun around him, putting some distance between them, but her hands slipped lightning-fast into places they shouldn’t be slipping to in public.
He caught her back, their hips locked together, and she didn’t fight. It felt too good. Right now her body was in control, not her mind. “I like the dress,” he whispered in her ear.
She reached in between them, and pulled the zipper down an inch lower. “It’s versatile.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, a warning in his voice. His body moved away from hers, and she felt the loss instantly, but he had done the right thing, damn him.
“See, you’re not a prude,” she said, sexual frustration coloring her voice, and not in a nice way, either.
“Oh come on, Mercedes. This is all commercialized sexuality.”
“So?”
He brushed back the hair from her face, his thumb lingering. “You better rescue Tony, I think he’s getting lost again.”
Sam was right. Tony was hovering closer and closer to the edge of the wall, nursing a drink in his hand. There was a lot here to overwhelm someone. The crowd of people, faceless, and nameless, the flash of the lights that matched the beat of the music. Everyone was here for one purpose. To meet someone for tonight. Not tomorrow, but only tonight.
Mercedes brought Tony onto the dance floor, searching out the women in the club to find his perfect match. It wouldn’t be easy because Tony was too sensitive for most of the barracudas here. They would chew him up and spit him out, but Mercedes was on a mission. A mission for Sam.
Her first candidate, Dora, was too shy. Mercedes knew it, knew that Tony and Dora would never speak at all, merely avoid glances all night. The next girl was Brittany, who was more outgoing, but she had a hard edge to her, so Mercedes shook her off. The last lady was Sylvia. Sylvia was a little older, more a librarian type, but the fact that she’d come to Trident with some of her friends indicated cajones of a non-librarian level. Mercedes approved.
“Want to meet a nice guy tonight? Somebody who will actually call you and ask you out on dates, probably even spring for dinner?”
Sylvia looked at her strangely, but nodded.
“Come with me,” said Mercedes, leading Sylvia to Tony, performing introductions, and hoping that nature would work its wayward course. Then she looked at Sam expectantly. “Problem solved.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Humor me. Why don’t we take Tony—”
“—and Sylvia—”
“—and Sylvia, and find someplace to talk. This has been a good first step, but I think we should regress to something less intimidating.”
“For him or for you?”
“Him.”
Because she was so proud of Sam for actually deigning to dance with her, she chose not to argue. “Fine.”
However, they did argue about where to go next. Mercedes wanted burgers from the Shake Shack and Sam wanted someplace more comfortable, so they finally ended up at a Starbucks in Soho, settled around a tiny table in the corner.
Sylvia and Tony were still a little bit embarrassed, and Mercedes did her best to keep the conversation flowing, but it wasn’t easy.
“Sylvia, where did you say you worked?”
“I didn’t.”
“So, where do you work?” asked Mercedes patiently.
“I can’t say.”
“As in, I don’t want you to know, or as in ‘I work for the CIA’?”
Sylvia scrunched up her brows. “I work for the CIA.”
Sam tried not to snicker. “Nice deduction, Sherlock.”
However, Tony looked impressed. “The CIA?”
“I’m only a secretary,” she added apologetically, sipping at her coffee.
“But a secretary is a really great thing. I mean, you see all those secrets, and hear all that spy-stuff, and I know the CIA is a much smarter place than they talk about in the press. Right, Sam?”
At the mention of Sam’s name, Sylvia’s eyes widened. “You’re Sam Porter! Oh my God. My boss hates you.”
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am,” he said, and Mercedes noticed the change in his voice. He’d changed from casual man-about-town to aw-shucks midwestern boy without taking so much as a breath. Nice job for a man born in Jersey.
Sylvia blushed bright red, and Tony covered her hand. “It’s okay. A lot of people hate Sam. He gets death threats on a daily basis.”
“You do?” gasped Mercedes.
Sam gave Tony a warning glance. “Not daily, but I have some enemies. Apparently in the CIA.”
Sylvia’s face returned to its normal shade of pale. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I caught your show a couple of times, but I like the silver-haired guy better.”
“Sam’s much more distinguished looking. He’s like the voice of reason,” said Mercedes, deciding that someone needed to take up for the underdog here.
Tony laughed at that. “Sam’s the voice of reason unless you got on the wrong side of his opinion. Then he becomes the voice of stubbornness.”
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing your own mind,” argued Mercedes.
Sam looked at her, the devil in his eyes. “I can argue my own defense.”
“Not now, honey. You sit back and listen.”
Even Sylvia laughed then. The conversation slid all over the place, and it was close to midnight when Sam excused himself.
Mercedes watched him walking toward the facilities, just like any ordinary American, and her heart gave a stutter. This was her guy. Her guy.
She caught up to him, inching a little too close for comfort.
Noticing her (not that she was exactly subtle), he asked, “You headed for the facilities, too, or something else?”
“Just wanted to say hello.”
His gaze dropped from her face, lower, lingering somewhere in the valley of her cleavage. “I do love that dress.”
“I thought I’d point out a dark corner over there, where a person of a devious nature might cop a feel, sneak a peak, steal a kiss, or all of the above.”
He pulled her behind the dark space where the boxes were stored, bringing her to him, his mouth coming down over hers. She didn’t notice the zipper sliding down, only the cool breeze hitting bare flesh. He continued to kiss her, his desire apparent in his tongue, in the thick bulge that pressed between her thighs, and then his hands were beneath the material, inside, cupping her breasts, freeing them.
Such marvelous hands, such talented fingers. She stood on her toes, trying to shift even closer, when she heard him swear. His mouth lifted from hers, her dress zipped tightly shut, and the rest of her was throbbing like a mother.
“That wasn’t fair,” she protested.
“We have company,” he whispered, and there was a sound from nearby. An older woman in party clothes held up her cell phone camera and snapped a picture.
It took a second for Mercedes to process the ramifications of the situation. Governments had been brought down for less.
Sam held up a hand, blocking the woman from them, and tried to push his way out, but this was the thing she had feared most.
Mercedes took a step away from Sam, her eyes wide and alarmed. “Oh, my God! You’re not Phil! Who are you?”
The woman looked at Mercedes in confusion. “I thought you were his date?”
Sam started to speak and Mercedes jammed her heel on his foot. Hard. “I’m with Phil, not this guy.” She gave Sam a hard once-over, squinting in the low light. “You look like Phil, but not quite. I think he’s taller.”
She turned to the woman. “Don’t you think Phil is taller?”
The woman looked at her in confusion. “I don’t know how tall Phil is. This is Sam Porter. The talk show host.”
Mercedes’s jaw dropped. “You’re on TV? Oh. My. God. I can’t believe it! I was kissing a TV star. Lady, can I see that picture, not that I can show Phil or anything. He’ll get like totally P.O.ed and you don’t want to be around Phil when he’s P.O.ed.” She held out her hand, and the woman handed her the camera.
“How can I view the picture?” she asked, and the woman pressed a button for her.
“Oh!” Mercedes made an approving sound. “Would you look at that?” She grinned at Sam. “You’re almost as cute as Phil.” Then she slid her fingers across the phone, hitting the delete option, and then hitting another button to confirm.
“There!” Mercedes said, and handed the phone back to the woman. “I think those phones are so cool, taking pictures with a telephone? Can you imagine? I’m just a big dork when it comes to technology. Listen, I can hear Phil calling my name. Toodles.” She waved at Sam. “Mr. TV Star, it was great to meet you, and I hope you never have to meet Phil. He will so jump all over that really tight ass of yours. He’s very possessive, my Phil.”
Then she lifted her coat from the chair, and sashayed out of the Starbucks, leaving Tony, Sylvia and Sam Porter far behind.
No, Mercedes had done enough damage for tonight.
HER CELL PHONE RANG TWICE before she shut it off. She knew it was Sam, but she wasn’t ready to talk to him. What could Mercedes say? She could quit her writing and walk away from her career, which would be a lot easier if her book wasn’t currently out in every bookstore in America—going into a second printing.
Tonight she should have known better. Stupidly, she had forgotten they lived in a world where cameras lurked around every corner, and a moment’s indiscretion could turn up on the Internet. Majorly stupid, because she wrote about those indiscretions in her blog. Good one, Mercedes. Chalk one up in the idiot column.
She walked up Broadway, and then down Houston, past the Saturday night crowds, past the couples, past the packs of smokers that congregated outside the club doors. The fall air was cold on her legs and she was grateful for the warmth of her dress, but it didn’t help the cold that was inside her. All those sweet ideas of permanence and security were currently out the window.
She walked past the newspaper kiosk, past the Number One Chinese restaurant. She had known all along that they couldn’t be together. She had tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. Maybe now he would listen. Maybe now he would leave her. The hurt pierced through the cold, pierced through the walls she’d built to protect herself. She didn’t want to hurt.
Outside her building, her heel got caught in one of the steam grates, and she pulled, trying to get it free. No matter how hard she tried, it was stuck. Hell.
She jerked again, leaving one broken heel stuck in the sidewalk. She took off the shoe and threw it in the street.
Damn Choos.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Why had she thought this could work? It would never work. Sam was honorable, upstanding, and he didn’t need someone who wrecked everything she touched.
Mercedes trampled up the four flights of stairs, one heel, one bare foot. When she got to her door, Sam was there. Waiting.