Not Safe for Work

by Nisha J. Tuli

Rafe glances at me, giving me a once-over. “A little early to be drinking, isn’t it, Trishara?” he asks, eyeing the delicate glass perched in my hand. Pinning him with a defiant stare, I drain the rest of the contents in one gulp. I might regret that later. “It’s five p.m. in London.” “We aren’t in London.” I place the glass on the low table between us. “You’re almost as smart as everyone pretends you are, Rafe.”

“What? Why do you keep making that face?” I ask. She looks up with a devilish gleam in her eyes. “I mean, I know I’ve just met you, but I’ve never seen someone make such intense fuck me eyes from clear across the room. But okay, you are enemies.” She adds one-handed air quotes around the last word, and I narrow my gaze. “Stop that. He is not. We can’t stand each other.” Lan waves a hand and smirks. “Yeah, okay. Sure. I totally believe you.”

He’s wearing dark grey pants and a pale pink dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and I’m convinced he must be testing me. His muscles give a sexy little flex as he squeezes his pen. Not sexy. Just… regular. It’s a totally platonic and uninteresting flex. It’s not affecting me at all.

I scan the deck, definitely not looking for Rafe. He probably stayed behind to chalk pentagrams on the floor of our suite and summon his closest friends from the ninth circle of hell.

“Aren’t there some beings who live under a bridge you could sit with?” I ask as some guys that Rafe appears friendly with filter in. One of them calls his name, and Rafe tips his chin. “Ah, there they are now. In all their troll-like glory.” Rafe’s eyebrow arches. “And your friends are the pinnacle of anti-trollness?” I lean back and peek at Lan talking to Gabrielle. “Of course, look at them. They’re adorable. We all are.”

“Me? I’ve literally never met anyone who thinks as much of himself as you do.” That doesn’t offend him at all. In fact, he grins, and I have to look away as I’m mortally wounded by that dimple. “I can see why it might seem that way when you’re as obsessed with me as you are.” My mouth opens. “I am not obsessed with you. I cannot stand you.” As the words leave my mouth, I feel them for the lie they are.

“Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what? You’re the one drawing pictures of me. Can I see it again? Are there more?” “No. I told you, it’s nothing. People are hard. I was practicing. It’s nothing. I draw random people all the time.” “Like who?” I cross my arms over my chest, my limbs weak and rubbery for an entirely different reason now. I can’t leave this alone. He throws up his hands. “I don’t know. Margaret Thatcher.” I almost choke on my tongue. “Margaret Thatcher?”

“Rafe, why did you draw me?” I whisper. The silence drags on so long that I don’t think he’ll answer, but then he says, “Because I draw things that are beautiful to me.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Tris, I’m sorry.” It’s another sorry. We’re sorry again, but he’s right. This was a terrible idea. I begin, quietly and appropriately freaking out. “You kissed me,” I say, not sure if it’s an observation or an accusation. Rafe’s nostrils flare, taking the latter bend in the road. “You kissed me!” “You started it!” Though I’m not really sure if that’s true. “You continued it,” he counters, and shit, that is totally true.

I’ve done a lot of things in the past few weeks that some might call career-limiting moves. I blackmailed my boss and then made out with his son. And I can’t stop thinking about doing it again. The making out. Not the blackmail. Though I’m not ruling it out for future consideration.

“Who were you planning to have sex with?” he asks, ripping open the box. “I don’t know, but it sure as hell wasn’t you,” I deadpan. “Then, call me the luckiest bastard in the universe.”

“As soon as we’re done today, we are meeting back here, and we aren’t leaving this room for the entire weekend. I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the filthy things I want to do to you.”

“What’s his last name?” he asks. “Why?” I look up at him. He shrugs. “I’d kind of like to find him and rip out his spine.”

“It’s been three days. I thought you’d stayed there with Hannah. I thought you hated me for that email I sent. Why didn’t you text or call?” “You told me not to,” he says with a frown. “I know,” I say with a sob. “But when have you ever listened to me?”