Chapter 4: Mistress Porch Scene, Sort Of
Question: What happens to a woman with a "deep vein of passionate feeling" and a man with a "bad reputation who has a way with women" post-sexual revolution? Answer: It's Complicated. (which is a GREAT modern fic, much better than my drabble).
"So this is your place?"
Rhett flicked the lights on.
"This is my place."
Scarlett's eyes drifted from the minimalist décor of the living room to the bare-bones functionality of the kitchen. Black leather, sharp angles and steel sheen glared back at her from every corner. No art on the walls, hardly any color and a heavy absence of personal touch.
"How long have you lived here?"
Rhett shut the door and threw his keys and phone on a spare credenza.
"Too long and not long enough," he chuckled, scooting past her and opening the fridge. Unsurprisingly it was almost empty. He grabbed a Heineken and unscrewed the cap, taking a loud swig.
"Why, Rhett, I'd love a beer."
He flicked his eyes to her and smiled in his toothy, impish way.
"Did I miss a birthday?"
A taunt. Of course.
"I would hate to think I forgot to get you a present for the big 2-1, Scar."
Scar. He knew how much that nickname bothered her. She bit back the retort. She did not want to fight with him. Not again. Their last 'date,' if you could call it that, they'd driven up to Stone Mountain. He'd said things, without actually saying anything and she'd stonewalled, somehow telling him everything. It had ended with her jumping out of his Lamborghini and hitching a ride with a tour bus. That had been a couple months ago. She hadn't heard from him since—not even a shout out on her wall—and she knew it wasn't because she'd screamed at him that day, frightening some Civil War re-enactors, that their on again, off again "friendship" was indefinitely off. He always ignored those sorts of things—things like respect and personal space. But today when she got his one-worded text, "Dinner?" she barely managed to wait the necessary five minutes before responding in the affirmative. She wouldn't admit it to herself, but she'd missed him.
Long ago she'd given up trying to figure out what the status of their relationship was. When he was in town, he would take her out a couple nights a week, their activities ranging from a posh box at a Falcons game to front row seats at a Fray concert. Sometimes he would just show up on her porch, toting take-out Chinese and a pile of horror movies. He didn't seem to enjoy them but he enjoyed laughing at how freaked out she got by them. He'd hold her hand when they were out walking together, rub her back when sitting down, let her fall asleep on his shoulder when they stayed up too late watching Blu-rays, but not once had he kissed her—and she didn't count the lip bumps to the cheek he would sometimes give her. Her dad thought he was too old for her, her friends called him her Sugar Daddy, and her mom knew nothing about him. As for Scarlett, she would have selected "all of the above." On paper he seemed like the world's best guy bud: cool, rich, dressed better than she did and shopped better too, knew all the hot spots in town and somehow finessed his way into every backstage, no-access, VP zone out there. The only problem was—
"My mother always told me it was impolite to stare at people, Scarlett." He stood watching her, a smirk smeared all over his perfect, two-day stubbled face. His bottle left empty on the countertop. "But, let me know if you want to see me from a different angle. I have been told my right side is more photogenic."
—his entire personality! Rude, cutting, sarcastic and cruel. Rhett would badger her with his "superior knowledge," attack her with his "wealth of experience," and knock her down with his "rapier wit." Every compliment was backhanded. Every nice word was coupled with a criticism. He laughed at what he called her endearing peccadilloes. He mocked her sense of style. He teased her until she actually felt empathy for the girls she'd bullied in high school. Relentless with his barbs until one of them finally punctured deep enough to make her explode. Maybe that was why he'd never tried pushing the bounds of their physical relationship; he could get his rocks off making a fool of her. Why complicate things?
He made a mock-Madonna retro pose and she rolled her eyes.
"You're really not going to give me a beer?"
"I cannot condone the dispensing of alcohol to minors."
"I'm twenty. I'd be way legal in Ireland."
"Where'd you hear that? Surely you haven't been reading."
"My dad is Irish. You've heard him talk."
"Ah yes, I've also heard him say that "they" send secret helicopters into the sky to spy on us and that the Braves are better since Maddux retired."
He raised one of his tweezed eye brows. Scarlett clenched her fists. Don't take the bait. Don't do it.
"Fine. Can I have a Coke?"
"It won't be diet."
"You think I need to lose a few pounds?"
"I will not answer that," he swung open the fridge and tossed her a can. She caught it. Barely. "But I know you think you need to."
"Actually, I don't."
Unlike most twenty-something ladies, she liked her figure. She knew she had a rocking body and didn't pretend to believe otherwise. What was the point? Girls hated her, had always hated her, whether she acted like she wanted a butt-lift or not.
For a moment she thought Rhett looked impressed—and something else. His dark eyes did this sort of fade-in, fade out thing. A rare, genuine smile split across his face. Suddenly she became aware that she was in his apartment and could see his bedroom door. And his king-sized bed. Her mind darted around for a topic. Any topic.
"So really what's with your No Alcohol policy? You haven't cared before."
"Maybe I want you completely lucid," his eyes scanned her body and her heart started somersaulting. Whoa! She did not like him—not like that. Right? "Or maybe I am too cheap to call a cab and hope you can drive my car home tonight."
She snorted. Cheap was not in his vocabulary. For all his faults, he was generous. He forked out the money like every day was payday. For her last birthday he'd actually bought her this crazy Philip Treacy hat and flown her in a private jet to the Kentucky Derby. Just so she'd have a place to wear it.
She snorted again, finally popping open her can. Bam. The liquid volcanoed up, blasting into her face and drenching her shirt. It shot into her nostrils and drizzled down her neckline, snaking sickly around her cleavage.
"You had to throw it!" she yelled, flicking at her eyes and tasting cola bubbles on her lips. "You had to throw it."
Scarlett doubted Rhett had heard her over his barking, choking laughter. She grumbled and tossed the empty can at his head. He dodged out of the way, cradling his sides.
"Where's your bathroom?"
"Feel free to use whatever," he wheezed, wiping away the tears and pointing through his bedroom door. "Towels are underneath the sink."
She whipped around, her sopping hair slapping her in the face and marched to the bathroom. She struggled with the door, unable to catch the latch with her sticky fingers. Suddenly Rhett appeared in front of her and obligingly slammed it for her.
The bathroom had the same five star-hotel feel to it. Cold, unfriendly and beautiful. She stripped off her shirt and bra, wringing them into the sink. Glancing up, she started at her wet, feral reflection and decided to just go ahead and take a shower.
The hot water struck her with a million, massage needles. She luxuriated under it. Aunt Pitty's shower heads were terrible and she'd been staying there since school got out for summer break. She wanted to just stand in Rhett's shower forever but when she reached for a body wash and found herself staring at a pink, flowery bottle, some of the ease washed away. How often did Rhett bring women up here? Jealousy nudged at her gut but she pushed it out. Why would she be jealous? She didn't love Rhett, she loved…she'd promised not to think about him.
How many months had he been gone? No word. No news. Only the strange information Rhett, Rhett of all people, had managed to learn from his contacts at Langley. Ashley Wilkes was in an enemy prison. Which enemy? Which country? No one would say. Not the CIA. It had nearly put Melanie into hysterics when Rhett told her Ashley was not State. Scarlett was not so surprised.
Most people thought Ashley had died. Most people had written him off. But not his wife. Melanie turned all of her energies on finding and liberating her husband. No more campaigns for whales or wastrels. Every day, every hour practically she was publicizing his imprisonment, petitioning for more information or simply praying. She refused to have a memorial or any sort of vigil. Scarlett had to give her props for her diligence. She wished she could share her optimism. Instead she punished herself by moving in with her number one frenemy and sharing her house.
The move had accomplished two things: it got her out of summer chores back at home and ensured she'd keep her promise to Ashley. Melanie had been begging her to move in ever since Ashley had disappeared. Finally two months ago she'd agreed. She was a glutton for pain. Because not only must she endure Melanie's and Aunt Pitty's, who lived upstairs in her own apartment with her cats, girly shows and excess of estrogen tear parties, but the evidence of Ashley and Melanie's baby. Yup. Melly was pregnant and just about ready to pop. Repeating "Rent-free, meals-free, parent-free" no longer did much to boost her spirits.
The water grew cold and she slammed the faucet off. No she would not think about it. Not tonight. What better distraction than Rhett? He never talked about serious things and he'd kept his stupid mouth shut about Ashley so far tonight. He apparently didn't want to start a fight again either. No serious stuff. Especially not since her dad had called just before Rhett picked her up and in one breath assured her not to worry and commanded her to light a votive candle because her mother had to get a biopsy on her ovaries next week. Nope. Just breathe. Think about what a male-whore Rhett must be to keep women's bath gels in his shower. Think about how to get him back for shaking up the Coke. Think about anything but real life.
Scarlett stepped out of the shower, steam all around her, and snagged a towel from below. She spotted some Lovespell lotion from Vicki's and an unopened Secret deodorant also in the cupboard. Seriously. He was going to get an earful. Still she snatched them and used them, easily hunted down a brand-new tooth brush and combed through her hair with her fingers. She frowned at her stained, wet shirt and bra. Something would have to be done about those. She didn't need to find out if he had a stash of clean Vicki's underwear.
Flipping around to her jeans and panties she groaned. They were floating in a sudsy puddle. Inadvertently she'd used them as a bath mat. No use crying over wet underwear. She would borrow some sweats and go commando. At least she'd shaved. Yesterday. Securing the towel under her arms and over her knees, she snuck back out into the living room. Rhett watched Sportscenter, lounging on his couch and with his back to her. She blew out her breath. Nervous.
"Hey, Rhett, do you mind if I borrow sweats or something? My top can't be saved without throwing it in the wash. And I sort of accidentally already washed my pants."
Click. The screen went blank. He tossed the remote and turned around. A flash of surprise crossed his face and then an energy she couldn't name. It was dark and light all at the same time. His eyes moved over her, tugging down the towel and winding around her legs. She bit her lip, feeling self-conscious. Her cheeks flushed. Why did she feel like a middle-schooler at her first dance? Rhett had seen her in much less clothing. They'd gone water-skiing together last summer and her swimsuit top had nearly flown off.
"Or a t-shirt even and some basketball shorts. Your a.c.'s not up that high, not like the meat locker temperatures Aunt Pitty keeps at home." Great she was rambling. Next she'd be discussing the weather.
"You can wear, or not wear, anything you like," he said, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. He grinned and started walking toward her. Swaggering more like.
His tare-your-clothes-off stare zapped through her skin and straight into her heart. Blood pounded from her toes to her crown and sweat gathered on her face. He knew what he was doing. She thought of the women's body wash and bath products, of how much more experience he must really have and how few and far between her sexual encounters had been by comparison. Did she even want to do this? Would it ruin what they had? Whatever that was. Was she ready to jump from hand-holding directly into his 1,200-thread count sheets? Slow down!
He was right in front of her, sporting an arrogant, heated smirk.
"Is Melanie or Aunt Pitty waiting up for you?" He brushed a wet lock of hair away from her forehead. Fire and ice jolted through her. "Will they worry if you're not back for breakfast?"
Yeah, he definitely knew what he was doing. She needed to take control of the situation. Only a towel and her resolve stood in between her and him.
"Do these lines work at the Geriatric hang outs?"
"I've been told I have a way with women. Of all ages."
"Emphasis on all."
"Oh, not all." He laughed softly. His voice melted like chocolate, syrupy and thick. "Not yet."
He breathed over her, the tip of his nose grazing the side of her face. Stop trembling! Stop blushing! Her body wasn't listening, only reacting. "The lotion smells much better on you, Scarlett."
There went one of her weapons. He pulled back. Not even an ounce of shame. His eyes wouldn't quit dancing with that x-ray vision, bad-boy vibe. Maybe she could still turn it around. She widened her eyes.
"Rhett, I…I'm scared."
Something shifted in his face. It softened.
"Why, babe?"
Babe. Only Rhett could make terms of endearment not sound cheesy. She struggled not to show too much. He could read her mind like an open blog.
"I don't want…"
"I promise we'll still be friends."
"A VD."
His face shut down. Blank.
She smirked this time. Oh! It felt good to finally wipe that smug playboy sneer off his face. If she could have this much power with some verbal foreplay, imagine what she could do with some physical cat and mouse. Sleeping with Rhett might just be her ticket to wreak her vengeance on him and get even.
Her bright gaze flickered down his body. He wore casual white slacks. His blue button-up was rolled to the elbows, the collar loose and limp. She was struck by his size. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rubbed against the thin cotton. His pants clung to his hulking thighs. She sucked hard on her bottom lip. Payback would be sweet—and spicy.
"Scarlett?"
She pulled her eyes away, blinking and refocusing on his face. He smiled down at her, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes were darker than usual.
"Believe me, if I choose to do this tonight, you won't be scheming for revenge. You'll be plotting how to get back into my bed."
And reverse. How did he get back in the driver's seat? The letdown was too much for her. Agitated—in every possible way—she couldn't keep her temper in check.
"If you choose to do this tonight? If you choose!"
"Why else would I bring you back here? For the first time in two years?"
He looked at ease. So in-control. It only made her angrier.
"I hate to break it to you but unless you're planning on going AWOL and slipping me a rufie, you're not touching me. Not tonight! Not ever!"
She shoved at him. Forgetting she was in a towel. Forgetting it wasn't very secure. It plopped down onto her feet. The cold blasted on her bare breasts and naked torso. She stumbled back, trying to cover up. Her hands clumsily waved up and down her body, managing to hide nothing.
Rhett just stood there. Quiet and subdued. The tiniest flush on his olive face. He slowly bent down and picked up the towel. His eyes didn't break away from her once. She ended her awkward nude dance with her knees crossed, one arm slung across her breasts and the other hovering straight down. Big time Jazz hands.
"It's impolite to stare," she lamely yelled.
"I think we're beyond politeness," Rhett drawled, walking up and draping the towel around her. His midnight eyes caressed her face and she leaned in, drawn by the mesmerizing, black holes. Afraid and weirdly awed. He turned the corner of his mouth down. A lonely sadness briefly covered his face.
"Come on, Scarlett. Let's get you some sweats."
He brushed past her and she shook her head, to snap out of it. Suddenly confused. She trailed him into the bedroom, hugging the towel tightly. Had he only been joking? No, she knew when a guy wanted her and Rhett had definitely wanted her. Then why did she feel rejected?
Grey sweats hit her face and she spun around to him. He was unbuttoning his shirt, rummaging around in his closet. Every piece of clothing folded and pressed. Guys shouldn't be as neat as him. It was unnatural. This entire night had been unnatural.
"Rhett?"
"Hmm?" he had shrugged out of his shirt and was putting on a purple and orange Clemson Tigers tee. She couldn't help but gawk at how cut his abs were. He yanked his head through the neck hole and brushed back his black hair. He faced her and grinned. Sometimes, like now, Rhett could just be so…nice. So easy-going and relaxed. Such an escape. Why couldn't he always be this way? Why did he have to switch on the anti-charm and act like an overgrown punk?
"Would you rather have a t-shirt and shorts?"
"What?"
He pointed to the sweats on the floor. She lowered her head and just stared at them. Who was he really? He never talked about himself. Never. She'd had to learn about his past from Google searches or slip-ups when he was drunk. And tonight? What had happened to conceited Mr. Wonderful? Did he think he was too good for her? Did he think she was too…too inexperienced? Too young? Again the wheels started spinning. If you've got it, flaunt it. If she wanted the ultimate upper hand with him it would require aggression. Especially after the free peep show she'd given him. She didn't know if it was so much about wanting to be with Rhett as about wanting to be wanted by him. But she wasn't like most girls who overanalyzed everything and gabbed with her bffs over coffee on what each word meant in a five sentence conversation with a guy. Evasions were not her style. Action was.
"I am an adult you know, Rhett."
He was heading into the bathroom with a pair of warm-ups and stopped short. He lifted his eye brows.
"Maybe I can't drink a beer in public but I am an adult."
"What do you want, Scarlett?" He sounded tired and leaned against the bathroom door frame.
She wasn't sure why she was doing this. But she knew if she didn't do it now, she never would. Gosh! Why hadn't he let her have just one swallow of his beer? Her mind flew over all of her worries, all of the reasons she should turn away and all of the consequences this might bring. Still she was determined. She marched over to his bed and her jaw jutting out she looked straight at him.
"Sex."
This time she meant to drop the towel onto the floor.