“I call bullshit. You were feeling pretty amazing the other night. I could make you feel like that every night,” he offered. She cleared her throat, fanning her hand in front of her face. Was it hotter than normal?
“Looks like you have other women you can make feel 'amazing',” Misch called him out.
“Ooohhh, jealousy, I like it,” he teased. She snorted.
“I'm not jealous,” she lied. “I'm just not that kind of girl.”
“Oh really. And what kind of girl are you referring to?”
“I'm not like her, I'm not some … some … some slut,” she tried to explain. He chuckled again. It came from deep in his throat, and was like an electric jolt that shot from her ear straight to between her legs.
“You're a married woman who, three nights ago, begged me to fuck her. Several different times. Mrs. Rapaport, I'm pretty sure you're the definition of a 'slut'.”
Misch hung up on him. She gasped in air, glancing around again. Why, she wasn't sure. It wasn't like anyone could have heard him, or would have cared. She waited for her phone to vibrate, for him to call her back. She would throw her phone away if he did. But he didn't. And after a couple minutes, she caught her breath. Crept back out of the alley, like some sort of creature of the night.
Almost.
Slut. Misch could honestly say she'd never been called that before, had certainly never done anything that would earn her that name. She'd lost her virginity at fifteen, to her boyfriend. Second guy she slept with was a guy she'd dated during her freshman year of college. And of course after that, Mike. Only Mike. Slut was a word that belonged on other women, she'd always thought.
Now it belonged on her.
She should've been angry at Tal. It should've offended her. But truthfully, it kind of turned her on. He hadn't sneered it at her, he hadn't said it in a mean way. His voice had been low, and she could practically hear his sly little smile, wrapping itself around his words. Picture his dark eyes, narrowing on her. His long fingers, teasing her. He made her want to be slutty. Made her want to do slutty things, with him.
But it wasn't meant to be. She'd had two full days to go over her reaction to her indiscretion. The moment had been great. Beyond great. Amazing. But the afterwards had been like the hangover from hell, and she still wasn't free of it. She had an acute sense of what an alcoholic felt like; sobriety was hell. She wouldn't put herself through that again.
Oh, yeah, and there's the little fact that cheating on your husband is bad. Fuck, I'm such a bitch.
Work was torturous, and to make matters worse, at the last minute before leaving work, she agreed to dinner with her boss and some of the Italian people who would be running the office after they left. All she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and think about what an awful person she was; she didn't want to press palms and talk about how awesome insurance was. Barf.
They were going to an upscale restaurant, so she took care getting ready. Slid on a tight black dress, did her makeup, blew out her hair. Italians all seemed to have amazing fashion sense, everyone looked like they'd stepped out of the pages of a magazine, and she didn't want to look schlumpy in comparison.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and she had to admit, she looked good. Really good. Sexy. Tal had done that for her, reminded her that she could still be sexy. Reminded her that other people thought she was sexy. It was nice. Nice to feel attractive. Nice to feel wanted. She tried to cling to that and pushed away the bad feelings. She would have enough of those when she had her talk with Michael.
Mischa got to the restaurant early, no one else was there yet. She was shown to a large, semi-circle booth. She slid towards the center of the seating and ordered a glass of pinot grigio. It was brought to her, and she sipped at it while she waited.
And waited. And waited.
Twenty minutes late was her cut off, and she started to turn in place, wondering if she'd been seated at the wrong table. But as she twisted to the left, looking over her shoulder, someone slid into the booth at her right.
“You clean up good,” Tal's voice was in her ear.
Misch yelped and jumped about a mile high. She turned to face him.
“What the fuck are you doing!?” she squeaked, pressing her hand to her chest.
“I told you, I wanted to see you again,” he answered, squeezing in close to her side. She gaped as he reached across her and grabbed her wine glass, taking a sip from it.
“You can't be here! You have to go!” she hissed, shoving against his ribs, trying to get him to move.
Oh my god. Oh my god. My one-night-stand that wouldn't die. Why can't he just disappear!?
“Why? Goddamn, Misch, you really look amazing,” he complimented her, leaning back so he could look her over. She blushed, but refused to be taken in by his flattery.
“I'm dressed up because I'm having dinner with my boss,” she explained, sweeping her gaze across the restaurant, paranoid that they were about to be caught.
“Wow, lucky guy. You screwing him, too?”
She gasped.
“Fuck you,” Misch swore, standing as best she could and starting to wiggle away from him. He grabbed her hip and yanked her down.
“I'm teasing you. You need to loosen up,” he chuckled at her. She shook her head, trying to shake him out of her brain.
“What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?” she asked, pushing at the hand he still had on her hip.