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It’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon and the air from the central heat in his hotel room folds around his torso like a balmy sheath. He likes to sleep in the nude, so the lightweight bedsheet, blanket and bedspread aren’t nearly sufficient enough to keep him warm at this point in the winter. Not even fully awake, Eames is grateful for thick walls and heating systems and spacious rooms he only has to share when he wants to. He slowly stretches his arms away from his body, rolling his head around and opening his eyes to the clear streams of daylight peeking through the window. From outside, he can hear honking car horns and screeching brakes and he smiles at the all-too familiar sounds of impatient New Yorkers annoyed by rush hour traffic. His last job in Calí, Colombia, involved duping an old cartel member into divulging the location of one of Pablo Escobar’s last hidden staches of gold. Eames, master forger in a high pilfering corner of the dreamshare, had forged himself into a voluptuous mestizo woman named Yesenia, whose first task was to capture the heart of the mark for his client. His determined seduction of the man resulted in superb sexual relations. Eames had outdone himself in that sense. But the weight of their emotional connection and the follow-through (continuing the affair even after the client retrieved his prize) weighed heavily on Eames’ body and heart. Everything beyond that was easy; locate the stache, pass the coordinates onto the other team members and allow them to retrieve it before the mark came back to consciousness. He knows the rigors of the world of men, how they strategize and plan and connect over strong drinks and cigars, forging tentative relationships to move towards a common goal. That’s ground zero, the standard. But the emotional world of women stuns him every time, master forger be damned. Women, the complexity of their needs and desires, coupled with their rich palette of feelings that can change on a whim, sending them into a flood of fury or despair or longing. He’s been doing this work for almost five years now, but he’s just beginning to understand how taxing relations can be for the fairer sex. As Yesenia, Eames became melancholy when he had to leave the mark for good (even if it was an affair tucked inside a hazy dream). How had he become that enmeshed with this man’s touch and his kiss? How was he already thinking about early mornings, and shared cups of coffee and a possible baby or two? It made him shiver to find himself that vulnerable and dare he say it, attached to anyone. He’d only allowed himself that kind of connection once and that was back in Uni when he was still finding himself, coming to terms with the free-spirited, guarded, contrarian that was new Eames. His downtime now consisted of a mélange of affairs and one-night stands and orgies when his hormones called for it. He loved sex, loved giving and receiving, was generous and adventurous. But he never opened up the most precious parts of himself. To anyone. That was a room whose door only he could unlock for now. And he liked it that way. Usually after a job, Eames would take a quick flight to a nearby city, enjoying a few women (or men), drinking and dancing; whatever immediate physical exertion could jolt his system and help him release accumulated stress. But this job truly left him wiped. Enough so that rest was much higher on his list now than sex. And anyone who knew Eames well, knew that was almost a cause for concern. So Eames left Colombia in a haze of passports and neat whisky and a hefty amount of menthol cigarettes. Even though it was firmly February and there was bound to be snow coming on the heels of his impending flight, he decided to fly into New York City and spend several days in Manhattan. Yes, he was a Londoner. A proper one at that, born and raised. But he’d been fortunate enough to spend several adventurous summers in the N-Y-C while his father was working towards a PhD in Economics. It was here, in these restless streets, that he’d learned to skateboard, garnered a secret love for rap, learned to pick apartment locks in under two minutes flat and made his first thousand dollars selling dime bags of weed. He was his father’s dream child (if by dream you mean veritable nightmare) and his recklessness helped heighten their already tense relationship. When he got snatched up by the cops with his “thuggish” friends (his Father’s words), a quick phone call by one of his father’s colleagues saw him walking away from the affair with a minor slap on the wrist. No arrest, no record, no tainting his father’s legacy in a “foreign freaking country”. Of course, that still didn’t quench his thirst for chaos and confusion. It only drove him to take his activities underground in the company of other ne’er-do-wells. His Father couldn’t see that his acquired skills, while never enabling him to become a proper doctor, lawyer or engineer, would help him command a hefty fee in the burgeoning field of dreamshare. To the tune of a healthy six figures in the turn of a calendar year. Which is why he was now comfortably turning over on soft high-count cotton sheets in the middle of the day, instead of chained to some company’s wooden desk on the floor of a high rise in the boring assed business district of whatever city he’d procured employment. By 4:30 pm, still in a haze of bed head and questionable breath, Eames orders himself a fresh green juice from the hotel juice bar, brushes his teeth and takes a quick shower before hitting the first floor gym. Forty-five minutes on the treadmill and some mid-level weightlifting help him extract out a bit of the residual weariness from the Calí job. Another forty minutes in the sauna help him sweat out the rest. He buys a few bottles of water from the shop near the gym, then heads back to his room to take a long, indulgent shower. The bathroom is larger than any he’s ever had in his family home or at his place in Kenya. It’s a glass encased walk-in shower with Grohe rainfall showerheads and hand-held attachments. Spacious enough that there’s an entire bench for him to sit or lay down on and still emerge from the thick marble tiles clean as a whistle. His skin is still tingling from his workout, blood moving freely through his veins and for the first time today, thoughts of a sexual nature command his attention. Even after taking a requisite pre-shower piss, his dick is half-hard. When he thinks about the prospects of getting it wet, he feels a sensuous tingle there that continues to stretch outward towards his limbs. He could procure an escort for a few hours. Or even flip through his little black book (some old school habits deserve preservation darling), and find a friendly femme to keep him company while he’s here. He’d at least appreciate, if not enjoy it. But for now Eames is completely satisfied to replay a luscious blow job from three weeks ago in London, reliving it moment by moment in his head, using the meaty pad of his palm to slowly stroke his entire length back and forth, until that prime vein is peeking up through the skin and his dick is defying gravity when he takes his hand away.
She was a yoga instructor who taught regularly in Shoreditch and Eames was pretty sure her name was Leslie or Lisa or something along those lines. She had a bright smile and a lone dimple on her left cheek and she radiated the kind of internal spark that would draw any man closer.
He’d dared to take a few classes after some of his dreamshare cohorts accused him of being a muscle head. Yes, he’d gone through his creatine-focused phase, but any proper ex-military man was always eager to stay in shape.
Luckily for him, she was warm and inviting, encouraging him to challenge himself with the poses, even as he struggled to learn their sequence. As she was thoroughly impressed by his flexibility (men tend to be tighter in the hips than women for biological reasons) she felt comfortable striking up a conversation with him after class. That led to even more convo over Ethiopian coffee at some hipster shop, which lead to them munching on thickly layer sandwiches near the Old Spitalfields Market and then a quick jaunt to her apartment where they subsequently showered and proceeded to fuck each other silly.
She was early thirties, blond, slim, with large tits and a lilting laugh, proving that she had many more years before life would attempt to grind her down. For now, she was all love and light…and lust.
But it all began with her willing mouth, opening to receive his engorged dick. He remembers how her throat was wet and hot and she tasted him like he was a special treat, licking the slit at the head of his penis, swirling pre-cum onto her tongue, then around the inside of her mouth.
She’d had the foresight to pull her hair back into a messy ponytail before she knelt down before him, but as she began, he found himself carefully gathering up loose strands not caught by her scrunchy and tucking them behind her ear. No need to let stray hairs impede on the main event.
He’d marveled at the way she slowly but steadily, fashioned her lips into the perfect “O”, hollowing out her cheeks so her teeth didn’t graze him and pulled him carefully until his tip was sitting firmly in the back of her throat.
Bracing himself against one wall of the shower, he spits into his free hand and uses his thumb to guide the lubrication all along his shaft, imagining Miss Yoga pulls him out of her mouth with a loud pop and lubricates his dick with her saliva, before puckering her lips and diving back around him.
He’s worked himself into a groove now, tugging at his eager flesh with a strong grip, abdomen tightening, that familiar tingling sensation emanating from his balls. He doesn’t really need the vision of her to get to the finish line, but their time together was truly enjoyable and he likes carrying her around in his head like a video-on-demand.
Now he can feel Miss Yoga, jiggling his balls with one hand while still working at him with her mighty mouth. A jolt running through his spine making him jump just a touch when she places a hand at his hip to steady him, opening her mouth into a smile and catching his eye.
He remembers taking her head into both of his hands to anchor her in place as he began to move his hips back and forth, fucking into her heated chasm, knowing that later he’d be fucking into her pussy and getting a different kind of pull against his member.
He can still hear her gagging, just so. He doesn’t know her well enough to be as rough as he likes, but it makes him smile when she refuses to give in, her eyes watering and saliva spilling around the edges of her mouth. She takes him in all the way to the back of her throat and he holds himself there for a few seconds, knowing he’s reached her physical limit.
He tugs at himself harder and harder and now, his back becoming warm and electric, surges of energy emanating from the base of his spine down his legs all the way to his feet. He’s getting close, feeling a surge of bottled excitement building inside of him, like the tenuous moments one climbs a roller coaster, knowing the drop will squeeze the joy, fear, tension and excitement from your lungs. His dick begins to leak slightly, but he wants an explosion, a burst of cum from his loins, so he allows Miss Yoga to move her hands around to his ass, squeezing his round bulbous cheeks while opening her eyes wider to mischievously glare at him before daring to let the slender fingers of her left hand reach between his cheeks and rub around the rim of his hole.
His body spasms unexpectedly and a small stream of cum squirts from his dick, but he’s not ready to fully release, so he deepens and steadies his breath for a bit longer.
Miss Yoga holds up a finger, asking for a brief respite and he pulls out allowing her to catch her breath just for a few seconds. After she greedily takes in air through her mouth, she spreads her legs wider beneath him and sticks two fingers from her right hand into the cleft of her pussy, swirling them around then pulling them out. She waves them slowly in front of him so he can see the sweet stickiness of her juices clinging to her fingers.
His mouth immediately waters and he bends down toward her, opening up to take a taste, but she grabs his dick, popping it back into her mouth, taking him all the way in. She takes those curious fingers back between his two cheeks and gently rubs against the rim of his hole and he jerks backwards as he lets out a gasp of unexpected laughter. Fuck! This dirty, dirty minx! She circles him there several times, warming him up, getting him acclimated before slipping the knuckle of one finger gently inside to test the waters.
Eames hisses in approval and sensitivity initial squeezing down on her finger and then opening up slightly, not wanting to finish just yet. Miss Yoga, with a devilish glint in her eye, pulls back slightly on his dick to lick at his slit and tease the head to bring him down a touch.
She begins slowly moving her finger in a circular motion and when he pushes back against her, she moves her finger deeper inside him, reveling in the tightness of his nether regions and the way it elicits moans from deep within his throat. When he feels warm and is moving his hips backwards more and more against her finger, she introduces a second finger and he moans loudly, another stream of cum escaping from his dick.
She catches most of it on her tongue, a slight bit landing on her lips and she sensuously licks around her mouth to catch all of it and swallow it down. She takes her tongue and runs circles around the bulbous head as she begins moving her fingers deeper and faster inside him.
He’s right at the edge. Of course she knows this, but he wants to hold on, wants to wait ‘til he can erupt all over her. She’s moving quickly inside of him now, watching as he takes quick breaths through his mouth to steady himself. She curls her fingers forward and dares to brush against his prostate. He curses loudly in the room, a little more semen spilling out of him and this time, onto the floor.
She doesn’t panic, still playing with his head, but now that she’s found his sweet spot, she’s confident, assured even. She begins pushing inside him with speed, letting him push against her hand and once they’ve gotten a solid rhythm going, she swirls her ringers ‘round and ‘round in his bum while increasing the suction on his penis with her mouth.
Eames never considered himself a religious man, possibly spiritual but certainly not pious. But on that day he called the name of God steadily, even shouting at one point, she was that dedicated to the task at hand.
A low hum comes out of him and she takes a chance, gently swiping at his prostate again and there it is. Another “Fuck” flying right out of his lips, coupled with liquid squeezing out of his organ. She takes most of it into her mouth, although a small squiggle lands in the middle of her chest.
She’s not tired, but focused, determined really. And now her assault begins. She slurps at him with her mouth, increasing her suction, buzzing a tune against him that causes his early spasms to start.
She works him from the back, twisting those two fingers frantically and swiping at his prostate every few thrusts and before long, Eames is coming in long, thick streams in her mouth, around her mouth, on the floor beneath him, on the floor past her…
…and so it is the same in reality in this spacious marble bathroom, with jets of water falling around him and clouds of steam rising above him to escape through the bathroom door. Eames lets the shouts and curses fly from him mouth because his cum is being dragged from him in long, powerful, pulsating flow and it just feels so fucking good to have this release. There’s a current of lightning burning from his perineum all the way up his spine and down through his legs to his feet. Even his toes are tingling. Thankfully he’s holding on to the wall, because he goes dizzy from the physical exertion and his mind blanks just for a few moments. As the last streams of his seed leave his body, he sits down on the marble bench, resting for several moments so he can catch his breath. He leans his head back against the wall, laughing at himself. He didn’t realize he was this backed up and stressed out. And now he might just take an early evening nap before finally, truly, taking a shower and heading out to go get some food. All of this exertion has him starved!
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
By the time Eames gets himself together (another nap, shower, hair dried and gelled and dressed in his dated-but-pressed-sort-of-finest) it’s eight thirty in the evening. And the small bag of tortilla chips he’s been munching on is rapidly leaving his system. His stomach is bellowing its complaint and he’s gulping down water to keep full in the meantime. He’s ready to put on his heavy jacket when he feels his phone buzz in his jeans pocket.“Who in the –?” He glances down and it’s a text message from Arthur. Arthur Mitchell, Dom Cobb’s favorite. And his frequent coworker.
Where in the world are you Eames?
Eames cut his eyes and sighs. The fact that Arthur is even reaching out means he’s talked to Dom, whom he checked-in with once the job was over, in case of blowback. Thus, Dom must have passed this information on to Arthur, even though they haven’t worked together in the last four months. Rubbish!
Hello to you too, Arthur.
Eames is curt. And he’s sure Arthur can feel that coming through in the text. But it’s not like there’s no reason for this.
Forgive my manners. Hello Eames. How’s your respite?
Eames takes a deep breath and runs his free hand through his beard. Neurotic, irritating, organized Arthur. With his deliciously defined jawline, that Roman nose and a head full of large, dark curls that by now are probably hiding his large, floppy ears. Ugh.For three years they worked together on a large number of jobs, manipulating the secrets of Prime Ministers, arms dealers, physicists and drug lords. Three years of stakeouts, exchanging gun fire and breaking into vaults. Strategizing and planning, replicating city blocks and palace wings.His initial hatred of Arthur was fiery. Hate wasn’t the best way to describe it. It was more of a seething displeasure that left a bitter aftertaste. Arthur, was Dom’s Point Man. He was careful and precise, exacting in his methods and judgments, harsh in his criticisms. And he openly despised Eames’ calm, nonchalant demeanor. Went out of his way to question Eames’ work ethic initially, calling him reckless and haphazard. It wasn’t until Eames saved his and Dom’s lives three times, that Arthur was finally forced to show him some respect.
Wonderful indeed. Taking some much needed to time to forget about all things dreamshare, you know?
A brief pause with no response.
Was there something you wanted?
One year ago, they worked together on an extraction in Prague. A very powerful art dealer had stolen precious works from an Iraqi museum during the American and British occupation. Works that held secrets with deleterious consequences if placed in the wrong hands. Everything had gone off almost without a hitch, until a member of the dealer’s security team recognized Arthur from a long-ago live job. Eames had to split forge himself, getting the team back to reality in time to assure that Arthur kept his head securely on his neck and they could all get away, alive.
Might have a job coming up soon. Real world. Reconnaissance. Thought you might want in.
Both of them had come a sliver away from Death and the Great Unknown. Stab wounds, bullet wounds (luckily superficial, taken by Eames) and the nearest miss of a live explosive. It was enough to startle both of them. Make them reassess everything they were doing.
Think I’m tapped out, mate. Probably take the next few months off. Recenter myself and all. Thanks for the offer.
There was no hiding the depth of fear they endured during that job. No way they could smooth away the shock planted on their faces; haggard breaths, eyes wild with uncertainty, skin scintillating and nervous anxiety pulsing through their veins. They fled the Czech Republic, the assets secure and in-transit on a military craft. Their contacts shuttled them off to the small town of Beaune, France to regroup for a few days before their transport back to London.And there, in relative obscurity, healing wounds both physical and mental, daring to argue back and forth about who should have done what sooner and how, they had one night of sexual congress. Well, more like plain ‘ole fucking. It was angry and aggressive and tethered with enough testosterone that Arthur’s hotel room should have gone up in fucking flames.There was the collision of sharp teeth and eager tongues, prying hands clutching at heads, arms and thighs, the bruising of tender skin and a temporary surrender of Arthur to Eames; resulting in flesh upon flesh, hell, flesh within flesh until a final eruption and whiteout came upon both of them. Afterwards, in the haze of darkness and cool clarity, he realized their aggression had been latent attraction all along.Eames, a creature of the world, adept at transformation and change, regretted nothing. It was visceral and it happened and if he was honest about it, he quite enjoyed himself. He could have sworn the same was true for Arthur. But when he tried to gently broach the subject with the point man several months later at a desolate bar in Paris, Arthur went stiff on him. Visibly agitated, showing slight signs of disgust and abruptly cutting him off, telling him they only needed to concern themselves with business.Never one to push, Eames took the message as a sign that their one-off was nothing more than a dire need for release; one that was satiated and had now passed. While he certainly felt the stirrings of something more, he was grown enough to accept Arthur’s firm rejection and continue their “work-only” relationship.
Don’t get too comfortable. Your skills are high in demand. And Dom stays hungry.
Even via text, it felt as if Arthur was dangling a double-sided carrot in front of him. Sure, he knew Eames was highly skilled and always at the top of someone’s team list. But beneath that there was also a quiet curiosity. Was Eames still interested? Could they have a “thing” (casual or otherwise)?. If he weren’t this exhausted and in need of fresh air, he’d be willing to test the waters again. But not now.
I’m sure we’ll meet again. ‘Til the next go round.
He didn’t wait for a response, simply pushed his phone into the pocket of his winter coat, gathered his card key and headed towards the elevator.He walked quickly along the sidewalk, watching the mist of his breath push out ahead of him. February in New York was nothing nice. But Eames liked the shock that cold, frigid air brought to his body and his mind. Winter frost helped clear so many things, that was for sure.For a city where the smell of the sewers could overpower anyone’s senses, he felt blessed to be frosty and unaware. The only aromas reaching out to him now were those of car exhaust and the tempting scent of garlic and other spices wafting outside from a nearby restaurant.Instead of staying close to the hotel, he took the train down to the Bowery to eat at one of his favorite establishments. Unlike London’s tube, the New York City subway was grimy, verging just on the edge of dangerous and Eames loved it. The city held a rhythm, the pulse of grand possibility or rash bursts of violence and anyone who was remotely aware would never become lulled into feeling secure here.As a young teenager, Eames loved people watching. And New York people watching was a feast for the eyes, ears and soul. He learned here that first impressions were like snapshots. You could never rely upon them for any useful information. It was never the spastic homeless man or the frothing drug addict who was a threat. Those types were usually acting out a battle with their innermost demons. Often it was the most unassuming, “normal looking” person in the room who would slit your throat, swipe your wallet and leave you for dead.He loved the constant surprise. Potheads and horny housewives, teenaged grifters and mixed in with seemingly soft dominatrices. When he needed a reminder not to get too adjusted to anything, he liked taking a huge whiff of the city. And so far, it had rarely let him down.Eames hops on the D train at Rockefeller Center going downtown then transfers to the F train in the West Village until he gets to that familiar Second Avenue stop that lets him off right on Houston Street. From there it’s just a few blocks before he hits the Bowery and he heads slightly north to Saxon and Parole. It’s a fairly new restaurant that boasts American fair but with enough of a cultured twist that it somehow reminds him of home.He steps inside quickly from the cold, approaching the petite red-haired hostess at the kiosk just beyond the doors. Her thick hair is slicked back into a ponytail, which coupled with her suave blazer and slacks, makes her appear too severe. But the warmth of her eyes and smile as he approaches make up for this.Her face has more angles and her skin is splotched with freckles but there’s something about her button-nose and gleaming curiosity that reminds him of Ariadne. She’s the young uni student Dom plucked to be their Architect on the Fischer job. Eames makes a mental note to check-in with her at some point. See if she wants back into their “business”. If only!In another state of mind, Eames would have made reservations, but he didn’t feel like it this time around. No matter. There are other options in case this place is packed. Which the red-haired hostess admits to him that it is. If he wants a table, it’ll be a minimum forty-five-minute wait.He thanks her deftly and sighs as he walks back outside, the chilly tendrils of air tightening his skin and making his eyes slightly water. He pulls a soft pack of ciggies from his left-hand coat pocket and lights up as he continues to walk north. He’s truly hungry now but figures he ‘ll wander just a bit and let his stomach choose a place.Sure enough, five blocks and two angry cab car horns later, he happens upon a small French bistro that’s not too crowded. Eames takes the last puff on his cigarette, blowing out the menthol smoke in a spiraling column. He plucks it on the concrete where he can squash out the last embers out against his shoe and heads inside.This time a slender blond hostess greets him warmly, happily informing him she has a quiet table in the back, ready just for him. He winks at her as he accepts and follows to his seat. Could she have something else ready for him? Who knows?As an Englishman and a gentleman (don’t believe anything you’ve heard darling), Eames usually prides himself on outward decorum and manners. But now his stomach won’t stop growling and his throat is rather dry from not hydrating enough during the day. So, he requests two large glasses of water before he even gets properly seated.Once he unfolds the menu, it doesn’t take long for him to order. First course is a hot, savory French onion soup, covered in Vermont Cheddar Cheese and then comes his entrée of a medium Hangar Steak substituting the pomme frites for a healthy portion of Garlic sautéed spinach, paired with a nice glass of cabernet sauvignon.With so few patrons inside, his food comes quickly. It’s hot and colorful and fresh and he takes little time flipping his cloth napkin out into place to dig in. Those first few bites of the steak are intoxicating. He reminds himself to slow down and chew thoroughly, for heaven’s sake. He’s not a caveman. There is something to be said for savoring all the flavors and juices before it all just disappears down his gullet.Eames notices a few solo patrons leave as others, including a couple arrive. When he’s on the job, he makes sure to notice everything and everyone. Tiny, mundane details. Like where people park their car, how fast they’re walking down the sidewalk, where they choose to sit inside a restaurant. His assignments require he remain on high alert. And this creates a constant level of anxiety that usually plagues him until the job is complete. It’s nice every once and awhile to force his reptilian brain into the background and simply let things be.All he cares about now is his warm food and possibly getting dessert.In between sips of wine he realizes it’s the first week of February, which means everyone’s a week out from Valentine’s Day. As a few couples pass by outside, he wonders if the men have secured their obligatory gifts or if they’ll be frantically running from store to store over the next few days. He chuckles to himself. Thank God his current life and situation doesn’t require him to adhere to any romantic standards.Come to think of it, he hasn’t had what anyone would consider a proper relationship in years now. He likes his entanglements to remain close-to-the-flesh, thank you very much. Very few people outside of dreamshare can handle the rigors of his work schedule.When he’s forced to disappear for months on end, he can blame it on the job and offer up a lusty reunion in the future. Many can’t handle this, but a few have actually fallen in line. Regardless, he keeps his heart strings are hidden carefully away and intact. No muss, no fuss.He comes to the last few bites of his meal and sighs deeply like a man who’s finished a marathon. He was ravenous. Now as his food begins to digest, he can take a few moments before getting the check and heading back out.His waitress, attentive and keen places the bill swiftly on the table and he responds by handing her a black Amex card before she retreats.With all of the stress and strain that comes with forging, not having to worry about bills of any kind is a nice compensation.It’s when the waitress returns that he sees the couple seated at the front of the restaurant in enough audible distress that the man, whose seat faces towards Eames, scowls in disgust, grabs his coat from the coat rack and storms outside into the darkness.What in the world could that affair be about? Especially when the woman behind is covering her face with hands, breathing heavily?Poor dear, he thinks. She and the Mister must have had quite a row for him to leave before their food was even served. Whatever happened, he couldn’t hear their exchange from where he was sitting.The waitress comes back with his receipts. He quickly retrieves his card, slipping it and one of the receipts into his wallet. Then he signs the remaining slip, making sure to give his waitress a healthy twenty percent tip, grabs his jacket and makes his way towards the front door.He’s got one arm inside a sleeve and is maneuvering to get the sleeve over his other arm when he hears the soft voice behind him.“Jonathan?”He stops dead in his tracks and purses his lips. It couldn’t be…“Jonathan [R ]?” It’s the woman whose companion walked out on her and she sounds just like…Eames turns around and he’s looking, really looking at the woman whose back had been towards him his entire meal.Her hair is much shorter now, soft dark curls spiraling around her face. But those high cheekbones and almond eyes, and thick beautiful lips are the same as he remembers. When she smiles, he sees the moon-shaped dimple in her left cheek and there is no doubt. It’s her.“Deidre?”He slips his other arm into his jacket, then moves towards her, eyes wide in shock and surprise.She stands up and he reaches out for her hand, pulling her into an embrace.He steps back and takes another long look at her. She may be ten pounds heavier, but the extra weight has only accentuated her sumptuous curves.“How the hell are you darling?”She forces a laugh, then looks up at him shyly. “Fine. How are you?”“I’m good. Really, really good.” He hears himself and wonders why he’d give such a daft response to a woman whose companion has left her stranded. But the truth is he doesn’t quite know what to say right now.He just knows this is a pleasant surprise.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Eames stands gazing at her for a moment. Perhaps, to anyone observing them, too long. But he can’t believe his eyes. It’s Deidre Mattheson, his girlfriend from Uni days. The first girl to rebuff his advances repeatedly, then somehow capture his heart. The only woman he’s loved without reservation (well outside of his Mum and his sisters, of course).He always scoffs when he hears people talk about the way life comes rushing back to them in certain moments. They make it sound like stills from some long-ago discarded movie reel. But here he is, staring at her. Her seemingly tanned skin, smooth and without blemish. Her brown eyes, wide and curious. Her plump lips covered in burgundy gloss and oh so inviting. And the memories of their time together wash over him like storm water flooding a riverbank. Stunned. That’s what he is.Suddenly he’s too warm in his coat and his throat is dry and he wants to flee yet stay all at the same time. It takes a moment before he realizes, Deidre’s back in her seat and a waiter is talking to the both of them.“Are you two ready to order…?”The waiter, a young, shaggy-haired painter type with long fingers that somehow remind him of Arthur, looks at him, puzzled. Because he knows Eames just finished a meal at a table further back.Eames looks at Deidre, who clearly wants an out and shakes his head. She’s finishing up a glass of some sort of white wine and the side of her mouth curls up into a slight grin. Eames clears his throat, looking at her intently before he speaks.“No, I think the lady’s finished here.”He whips out his wallet, passing this waiter his credit card and sits at the edge of the chair opposite her.“Jonathan, I can get tha-“ Deidre tries to interrupt.“Put everything on my card chap.”The waiter’s eyes widen just a touch. Who goes around calling other men chap? In New York? He shakes his hair, letting it swing around his face. Doesn’t matter, as long as I make my tips for the night. He walks away leaving Eames and Deidre alone.“So…” Eames doesn’t know where to begin. It’s been eight years since they’ve seen each other and spoken face-to-face. Eight years since they’ve kissed or held each other…“You look lovely. As always.”Deidre smiles at him, blushing and then hides her smile behind her hand, a nervous tick she’s had since he first met her in study group. A habit he was always wont to rid her off. Because it was like dimming sunshine or covering moonlight. Pointless.“And you can still charm the Devil out of his last dollar…”Her mouth is smiling, but there’s a sadness in her eyes and she’s not trying to hide it from him. This makes him ache in the center of his chest.The waiter appears again with another check for Eames to sign. He scribbles out his name effortlessly, slipping his card back into his wallet and then looks at her seriously.“Where do you wanna go?” They walk a ways in anticipatory silence towards the subway. Eames knows Deidre is still hungry so when she suggests one of her favorite Thai spots, he’s happy to oblige. They ride the train north into Midtown. He’s shocked at his urge to hold her hand as they make their way above ground and onto the sidewalk. But he resists. Instead he walks behind and then beside her, simply enjoying her presence.His phone begins buzzing in his pocket. He takes it out and is pleased to see its Ari’s number instead of Arthur’s. He stops and decides to answer.“’Scuse me Dee. Just need to take this quick phone call.”“No problem.” She steps with him into the alcove of a closed fabric store and pulls her scarf up over her mouth to keep warm.“Ari, darling! How are you?” Eames is genuinely happy to hear from her, although he hopes this is just a friendly call.“Hey Eames. Didn’t think I’d catch you.”“Where are you pet?” He glances sideways, trying to notice if Deidre’s disposition changes at all. She’s staring at a couple on the street, all glammed up, getting out of a car and on their way to a nearby music club. She has no idea who he’s talking to. He shouldn’t care what she thinks about his phone call at all. But he does.“I’m in Montego Bay. At a resort right on the beach. It’s 90 degrees and I couldn’t be happier.”Ari’s being unusually…friendly. So he braces himself.“Going for fun and sun on your winter break, huh?”“Well…” He can already see her partially biting her bottom lip, in that cutesy way that she does. She’s smart as a whip, that one. But her mannerisms sometimes render her more helpless than she actually is.“I’m trying to recreate the vacation home of a certain someone…”Eames sighs. Possibly a diplomat, or a businessman, more likely a drug lord or other dubious individual.“And…?”Ari sighs at the other end.“…well I’m here with Arthur and he wanted me to call you…”Before either of them can steady themselves, Arthur is on the phone“…we need to find a way to get inside and find out where his safe is located.”“Arthur, I told you I’m not up for work right now. I’m taking some down time and…”“Don’t be a prick Eames. Just help us figure out how to get into the house…”“How’m I s’pose to do that all the way up here?”Eames’ nostrils are flaring. He looks apologetically at Deidre who is now dancing back and forth from one leg to the next. It really is cold out here now.“Look Arthur. I’m on my way to dinner. With a friend. I’ll call you later tonight.”“We only have 12 hours to figure this…”Eames doesn’t wait to hear the rest of it, because he’s already hung up the phone and wrapped his arm around Deidre’s to usher them on their way.
Fucking pushy presumptuous prick. No sense of boundaries. Doesn’t listen. Why has he dragged Ari into this? She should be enjoying herself, for Chrissake.
“You okay Jonathon?”Deidre’s looking at him questioningly. He knows his brow is furrowed and the corners of his jaw are pushed out from where he’s clenching his teeth.
He’ll wait. He has no choice.
“I’m fine darling. Coworkers trying to pick my brain. I just want to leave all of that for a bit.”He sticks out his tongue at an awkward angle and mushes up his face crazily. Deidre chuckles. He winks at her and they move on their way. By now it’s around nine-thirty, but there’s still plenty of people on the streets. They’re properly wrapped up, braving the cold like Eames and Deidre. Determined to enjoy the night, in spite of it all.They finally arrive at the Royal Siam restaurant on Eighth Avenue and are warmly greeted by a hostess. Eames requests a table closer to the back and she happily obliges and seats them quickly.Once their coats, hats, scarves and gloves are dispensed of and they’re comfortably seated, Eames puts his hands on the table and lets out a long, audible sigh.“So Deidre. Darling. How are you really doing?”She’s just unfolded the menu and laid it out in front of her. She looks up at him, smiling just enough for her dimple to appear and takes a deep breath.“All in all, I really can’t complain. I got my Architecture degree, worked in London for a few years, then in Prague. Once my parents got divorced, I moved back to the States with Mommy…”“Oh do tell her I said hello. Well the both of them, but especially your Mum,” he interrupts.“Of course, I will,” she obliges.“You were saying…”“Well not too long ago, I got my Masters in Programming and Graphic Design. I’ve been freelancing while I look for a permanent gig. Got a few great clients from some of Mommy’s friends. So… I’m fine.”She looks up at him expecting him that to be enough. They both know it’s not.“And that bloke you came into the restaurant with? The one who so rudely left you alone at the fucking table. What’s that all about?”By this time the waitress has brought them two large glasses of water and she’s never been happier. She scoops up her glass up, taking large, greedy gulps. The water seems to saturate her veins and her throat. It also gives her a few moments to collect herself.She looks at Eames directly now. No filter.“That was Alex.” She says this with a heaviness, a weariness.Eames waits patiently, the muscles in his face softening.She purses her lips and continues.“Three hours ago, he was my fiancé.”“And now?”She scans the table as if she’s looking for something.“Now he says he doesn’t know how he feels about me. About us.”She smirks at him and her shoulders drop. It wouldn’t be easy admitting this info to anyone. But especially not to him. Not with their history.Deidre suddenly feels hollow and small. Like her flesh is disintegrating and if a strong breeze blows by her, she might just disappear.Eames reaches across the table and places his hand over hers, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her hand. He’s happy to note that her skin is as soft and supple as he remembers. He’s even happier that she doesn’t flinch when he touches her.“I mean, what do you even say to that? He asked me to marry him and now, six months later, he’s not sure…”“Fucking foul darling. I’m truly sorry this is happening.”He’s watching her squirm in her seat, pulling her free hand up to chew on one of her nails. And Eames wants nothing more than to kiss her. Not even seductively, mind you. He just wants to press his lips gently against her forehead, on the bulb of her nose and on her mouth. Slowly, with purpose. Leaving a heat imprint on her skin. He wants to bring her some tiny measure of comfort, even though he knows there is no quarter for this type of tear in a relationship. Unfortunately, it’s a burden one has to carry alone.The waitress is there now, so Eames defers to Deidre and lets her order. She settles on a shrimp pad thai. Even though he’s not really hungry, he orders soup and a bottle of wine for them to share.Deidre can feel a funnel of emotions beginning to rise inside of her. She knows Eames will indulge her, if only out of sheer courtesy, she doesn’t want to take him down the tunnel that is now her love life. Best to put on a brave face, make it through dinner and then have a breakdown once she’s safely inside their apartment. Well theirs for now. Until Alex decides to do whatever the hell he’s gonna do.So she swiftly changes the subject.“…and what about you Johnny. What have you been up to all this time?”Yes. Jonathan is his first name, isn’t it? It’s strange now to hear her call him that. Everyone in dreamshare simply knows him as Eames. And that’s not his real surname at all. No one there knows it. He made sure to obscure his identity just enough so any curious busybody would have to do some major digging.People who call him Jonathan know him from a different time, a different life. Back when he was even more passionate and expressive than he is now. Back when he was unraveling the mystery of himself. When he gave every ounce he had to the woman sitting across from him. With no regrets.“Well after we …,” he hesitates a bit. Because he was the one who walked away from their relationship eight years ago. The way her Alex might be doing now.“I enrolled and served with the British Army for four years, did some contract work overseas, worked for a security firm, created an import/export business for myself and upon the advice of a friend decided to jump into search and rescue missions.”Search and rescue missions. That’s how he chose to “explain” dreamshare to her. There was no way in hell he could tell her (not now anyways) that he was connected to a group of people who essentially engaged in sabotage and high-level theft at the behest of shady clients for a sum that allowed him to live a luxurious, albeit dangerous life.Deidre was a good ‘un. Not a prissy know-it-all nagger. But a woman of integrity and morals. Someone he once wanted to protect more than anything in the world. A woman, who even now, elicited some sort of caveman impulse inside him. What would she think if she really knew what he’d been up to these last few years?She smiled at him as she wrapped the noodles around the tongs of her fork.“That sounds exciting. Lots of travel, non-stop adventure. Anyone there to tie you down?”“Nahhh. Gone the way of the bachelor, I’m afraid. But I did manage to snag a little place half ‘way round the world. That’s where I lay my head in between gigs. Comes a time when even bachelors need to get grounded, innit?”“The free spirit planting roots?” She laughs just a bit. The last time he was tethered was with her. And if they hadn’t been twenty-something babies, he’d probably still be with her now.“You’ll have to come visit me sometime. Help me pick out proper curtains and house plants, yeah?”“I guess I could do that.” She looks away just for a second and then looks back directly at him.“For an old friend?” he pries, taking a large sip of wine.Her face lights up just for a moment and it somehow encourages him.“Especially for an old friend,” she replies warmly. “…so anyways, there I was stuck in an elevator after a long night of drinking. My cohorts were panicking, ringing the alarm, trying to get help. Meanwhile, I’m in the corner with a three-quarter pint of whiskey in my gut, wondering if I’m gonna shit my pants or hurl it all up.Finally, the system starts up again and the elevator’s bouncing up and down for what feels like twenty minutes. Everyone else is excited to almost be outta there, ready to breathe the fresh air again. And I’m stuck in the corner, squeezing my arse cheeks together, my mouth closed, daring to breathe through my nose and praying to God that I can get to the loo before it all gets tragic.”They’re walking up the block now, dinner settling easily in her stomach. Eames feeling comfortable and enjoying Deidre’s company. Her dimple appears when she smiles at his story. It’s a half-crescent moon that punctuates the sweet roundness of her face. So very lovely.“Did you make it?” Deidre’s stopped walking since they’re so close to a subway stop. Eames is slightly lost in thought until she repeats her question.“…Wha?”“To the bathroom…,” she gently reminds him.“Oh yeah, yeah, YEAH. It was a close call and all. Thank heavens I found a diner open at that hour. Almost empty. After that, I went to my hotel and passed out. Swore I’d never drink another drop. Which was a lie, of course.”Deidre wraps her neck all the way up in her scarf, fidgeting back and forth, not really knowing what to say as their evening comes to a close.“So you’re taking the train back home?”Eames realizes that he’s not quite ready for her to go. They’ve been doing a polite dance back and forth with one another. But there’s so much more he wants to say to her. Things that he won’t feel comfortable saying on a New York City sidewalk. In the February cold.“Yeah. I live at the edge of Harlem and Washington Heights, so if I catch the express, I can be home in twenty-five, thirty minutes.”“Are you sure you want to go home…?” Eames is shameless. They both know it. But he really isn’t ready for the night to end.“No. I don’t want to. But if he’s there, maybe we can hash things out. Or not. I’ll have to face it eventually anyways.”Eames feels stupid for reminding her of why they ended up eating together in the first place. He’s nervous and unsure and it’s showing. But he doesn’t care.Deidre doesn’t look convinced that home is where she should be right now either. She moves in towards him and reaches up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Eames pulls her into his arms for a hug. He holds her tightly just long enough for her to feel his heat. She can feel him alright. That’s why she quickly clears her throat and moves away from him a bit.“I had a lovely time. Truly.” She’s half smiling now, but he can tell she means what she’s saying.“As did I.”She turns to walk away from him towards the stairs, when Eames quickly pulls out a pen and tattered business card from his wallet.“Dee…wait.”He scribbles out on the back of it and folds into her palm.“My number and the hotel and room where I’m staying. Give me a call if you want to hang out again. Or whatever.Deidre crams the card into her coat pocket and gets to the top step of the subway stairs.“I’m in town for several days. So you know...” He’s silently willing her to come with him. She chooses otherwise.“It’s good to see you Jonathan. Take care.”He watches her disappear before walking to his own subway stop.