Question of Trust. Laura Caldwell
and gave speeches at conferences around the world, she said nothing now.
When she reached him, she straddled him, not letting his eyes go anywhere but hers, and then, without warning, like he liked it, she moved herself over him.
Oh! Some primal exclamation had escaped him as he felt the tightness, the wetness and the scraps of silk on either side.
As she slipped him farther inside herself, Theodore and his girlfriend slipped away from his mind, knowing he could let them go. But not for long.
12
I heard my name being called. “Izzy?” There was definitely a question mark in the way it was said, but not as if the person were unsure whether they’d seen me, but rather they sounded surprised I was there.
I turned around. “Sam?” There was decidedly a question mark at the end of that, as well. And a touch of panic.
What in the hell was Sam doing at the River North nightclub Underground? Granted, Underground, with its military hideout vibe and revolving door of visiting celebrities, was a hot club, one that had survived when others opened and closed in six months. But it was still a nightclub. And Sam, my former fiancé, was not a nightclub guy. At least as far as I knew.
Then again, I also hadn’t realized that Brad, Theo’s father, was a regular at the city’s late-night, bass-thumping, the-stalls-in-the-bathroom-go-all-the-way-to-the-floor kind of places.
Theo had called his dad earlier that evening from home and, about ten minutes later, he’d come out of the office. “Want to meet my dad? Turns out he can swing it tonight.”
The air in the condo had been tense since Theo returned from HeadFirst not wanting to talk. So even though it was a Sunday night, and I felt the pull of my bed, I immediately said yes. We took a cab to the club. The wooden door was marked only with a triangular sign out front. But when the door was opened, even a crack, we heard the hard pumps of bass.
“Swanky,” I said after we’d walked through the place and stopped in a relatively quiet spot to look around.
“My dad has a thing for these kinds of clubs,” Theo said. “Ever since he and my mom got divorced. For a while, he said he had to be out at places like this for business, but …” Theo raised his shoulders in a distracted shrug, and his words died out as if he couldn’t be bothered to continue the sentence.
“What does he do?”
“He’s a venture capitalist. Sort of. He takes small companies and grows them.”
We got jostled by people packing the dance floor as the DJ began pounding on bongos. Theo looked around the club again. “Yep, this is my dad’s kind of place.” He peered. “There he is.” He pointed to a man in a taupe leather booth, tucked in a corner beneath a stone wall. Another guy—the friend of his father’s?—sat at the other end, while a few young women packed the rest of the booth, all boasting impressive cleavage. Theo’s dad was clearly telling some story, and the women leaned in, listening, then threw back their heads, laughing at the same time. In the center of the table was an ice bucket, highball glasses, bottles of whiskey and vodka, some mixers.
Theo didn’t move right away.
“You know what this place reminds me of?” I said to Theo. Or rather I shouted due to the rising volume of the music.
“What?” he said.
“When I met you. The club on Damen.”
When Theo and I had been introduced by my friend Jane, she’d practically shoved us together on a leather booth.
“That’s where it all started,” I reminded him, nudging my hip into his thigh. It was a small gesture that no one else would see but had become one of our habits, a thing we did, just the two of us, a signal that indicated so many things but mainly lust and love (or something like it) in equal servings.
Theo grinned, but it wasn’t one of those looks he usually gave me—one I knew was created just for me, that made me feel as if we were at the center of the universe. (A universe that was kind. And fair. And safe.)
No, it wasn’t that type of look. But unfortunately, I couldn’t read the expression. His mouth, normally so lush, was stretched straight across to show teeth. His eyes were lifeless. Where did you go, Theo?
“Is your dad going to remind me of you?” I asked to pull him back to the present.
“Nah.” He pointed at his dad, who wore a black blazer, clearly expensive, and a large watch. He pointed at the women. “And they are not like you.”
“Who are they?”
“Who knows? They change all the time.” He laughed then. “My dad will never change.”
“Sometimes that’s not a bad thing.” I thought about the changes I’d gone through—the ones my family had gone through—over the past year. Sometimes it felt as if we were hurtling through life at light speed. And many times that was hard to get used to.
We made our way to the booth. When we reached it, the syrupy smiles of the women dropped. All eyes shot to Theo. They all sucked him in with their gazes, shot each other glances that said, Who is THIS? I didn’t blame them one bit.
“Theo!” His father stood and grasped Theo’s hand, throwing his arm around him and thumping him on the back. When we spied him across the bar, Brad Jameson had looked like a player with all the women around him, but now, with Theo, he only looked like a happy, proud parent.
“Hey, Brad.” Theo had told me he called his father by his first name. Always had. I thought it was strange, but I also had one of the strangest father-child relationships around, so I wasn’t one to talk. Theo grasped my elbow gently and pulled me toward him. “This is Izzy.”
“Izzy.” Brad Jameson shook my hand. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” He gave me a genuine smile. As with Theo’s mom, I’d wondered if he might have some misgivings about the eight-year age difference between Theo and me, but based on the women at the table, he clearly was a supporter of dating the youth.
We spent an hour talking to Brad and his friend Kent and sometimes talking to the women—LaBree, Jenni (“with an i”) and Erin. (Or Karen? It was some variation on that theme.) LaBree was a cool girl—gorgeous and smart. The other two, though, weren’t much interested in conversation unless one of the men was giving them attention.
When I had the chance, I studied Brad. I couldn’t quite figure him out. I could see that Brad had given Theo his straight, strong jawline, the piercing eyes, the full lips. But those physical traits on Brad couldn’t help him in the crowd of injection-perfected twentysomethings. To me, he appeared like an older, somewhat shrunken version of Theo.
But he was pleasant enough and appeared to be a smart guy. Every so often, when LaBree went to the restroom, he and I had the chance to talk, just the two of us. The topics flowed from the Chicago political climate to a trip he’d taken years ago to hike in Machu Picchu, something he wanted to do again.
At one point in our conversation, I’d asked him the question at the top of my mind. “Theo told you he was turned down …”
Before I could even finish, or decide whether I should finish, he answered, “… For a mortgage?”
“Yeah. Why do you think that happened?”
Brad nodded right away. “It’s killing me. Theo has worked so hard. I don’t know what’s going on. HeadFirst just has to figure out their situation here and overseas. But hopefully, it’ll …”
LaBree returned then, and Theo, whose mood seemed to have lifted a little, began telling a story about a surf trip to Mexico. I watched Brad, and it was evident he adored his son, nodding enthusiastically, looking around as if to make sure everyone was noticing how wonderful Theo was. And since I thought Theo was wonderful, too (even with his absent nature the past few days), that made me like Brad Jameson