I hadn't thrown a temper-tantrum in over thirty years. Yet one little word had sparked that rebellious nature I was sure I had outgrown.
"I'm sorry, Becca. It's just not possible. That's the last I'm going to say about this."
I opened my mouth but clamped it shut again when Malcolm tilted his head down and shook it once. I wanted to whine, "But why?" And he knew it. Damn him.
I returned to the yellow pad of paper on which I was trying to finish my rough draft of Chapter One. But I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about last night at the restaurant, at the private club, and about this morning. How he could lift me up so high, and with one word, "No," I could tumble so far.
My heart felt deflated. I pretended to write even though I was mulling over my disappointment. In my head, I had my arms crossed and my bottom lip stuck out as I glared at the "adult" in the room who had denied me what I wanted.
When I heard the rustle of the newspaper, I peeked up to see him carefully fold it and set it aside before he got up to refill his coffee mug. I was admiring his ass in his jeans while sticking my tongue out at his back when a stampede of elephants and monkeys came barreling down the stairs and into the kitchen. Well, it sounded like one, even though it was just Drake chasing Daphne.
"Good morning," Daphne said breathlessly as she danced around one end of the island. Drake paced around the other: the lion hunting the gazelle. She squealed when he outsmarted her and grabbed her around the waist, nuzzling her neck.
"Get a room," I mumbled.
"Been there, done that," Drake grinned.
I tried to ignore them as I sipped my milk-and-sugar doctored cup of caffeine. But they continued to horse around and eventually bumped into my chair. I saved the legal pad before the hot liquid sloshed over the side of my cup and onto the table.
When Drake plopped down into the chair next to me, Daphne perched herself on his knee. "I wish it were Labor Day already. I can't wait two weeks. Can you imagine? Three whole days of being your slave?"
"The opportunities are endless," Drake said, adding a feisty growl.
I jabbed my pencil at the paper and broke the lead. "Oh, fuck it." With a grunt, I shoved my chair back and stomped to the foyer.
"What's with her?" I heard Drake ask. I didn't hear Malcolm's response.
Upstairs, I grabbed my laptop, notes, and my everyday-purse after transferring the essentials from the clutch I'd used last night. I paused when I pulled my thong out, feeling tears in my eyes. I swallowed a lump in my throat and tossed the barely-there panties aside. I was heading back down when I noticed Malcolm leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs.
"Going somewhere?" He stood up straighter, as if to block me if necessary.
"To my office, where it's quiet and free from distractions." I stopped two steps above him and adjusted the straps of my laptop bag and purse on my shoulder.
"Is this because I won't go away with you for the Labor Day Weekend?"
"See, you said 'wont,' not 'can't.' You don't really—"
"Stop it. You're acting childish. It's not becoming."
I rolled my eyes at him. "I'm sure you'd like to take me across your knee right now."
He ascended one step so we were nose-to-nose. "Becca! I told you, school starts next Monday. I always use that long weekend to adjust my lesson plans after the first two weeks of classes. It's important. You're welcome down to come to my house, I just can't go out of town for that long."
"Understood." I pushed by him and retrieved my keys from the hall table. "Stay as long as you like. Drake knows how to lock up."
"Come on, Becca." Malcolm grabbed my wrist as I reached for the door handle. I froze, and he must've realized what he'd done—what that action meant to me—because he let go as if my skin were on fire. "I'm sorry. Please. Don't go."
"I have a deadline. I have work to do. I'm sure you can understand that."
He let me leave. But as the front door shut behind me, I felt a pang in my chest. I had never been mean to him before. I started to turn around and apologize, but I heard everyone laughing inside. I knew they weren't laughing at me, but I still was hurt. As if I were back on the outside of the group again...and whatever I had said or done to him mattered so little that he could move on that quickly to something humorous. I prayed he would open the door and come after me, but it remained closed.
All the way into the office, I wondered if the past few weeks had just been a crazy, kinky fling. Were we merely playing roles? And now, when reality—disguised as our jobs—came knocking, we went our separate ways?
Although my schedule as a writer was flexible, his as a teacher wasn't most of the year. He couldn't take off on a weekend getaway at will. He had priorities that trumped time with me.
I knew that. I understood. I just didn't like it.
Was I so selfish that I wouldn't allow myself to adapt? To compromise? To fully submit? And would my resistance be my own demise?
###
I was depressed. And when I was depressed, my characters were depressed.
They reflected my moods, and sometimes my own life. Which resulted in some interesting dialogue and scenes. Today, though, it wasn't for the good. And it was frustrating me.
After revising the same scene ten times and then deleting it, I wandered from my home office to my bedroom across the hall. I leaned against the doorjamb and took in the windows flanking the headboard where a cool, night breeze fluttered the curtains and made the Roman shades tap lightly against the frame. On my bed, the duvet was partially on the floor; the top sheet was balled in one corner; and the two feather pillows were piled in another.
I hadn't slept well last night. Or the night before. Truth be told, I hadn't slept well since our fight.
The first time Malcolm had made love to me was on that bed. I'd been mortified that someone would be able to hear us with the windows open. Then I had thrown caution to the wind and embraced whatever he'd told me to do.
I tried to remember the last time Malcolm and I had been in here.
I'd had sex with Brian in mid-July; met Malcolm two days later; and had sex with him for the first time the following weekend. He'd taken me to the private, kinky nightclub a couple of weeks before Labor Day. It had to have been eight weeks since he'd been to Chicago...since I'd digressed to be six instead of thirty-six.
School had started again for him in August. I had gone to visit him for a couple of weekends in September, but both times there had been a lot of tension between us. I just hadn't been into the scenes. I'd almost used the safeword just to end it the last time. We continued to talk on the phone, but every time he suggested getting together again, I had given him the same excuse: I was too busy writing to go visit.
While I had been busy—I'd gotten ten chapters written in those same eight weeks—it wasn't to the point that I couldn't have made time for him. I was still holding a grudge that we hadn't gone away for the extended Labor Day Weekend. I couldn't remember ever having been so...stubborn.
