And I was happy, I swear to fucking god I was, until my father started planting seeds of doubt in my head. Because what he said about my roots and having something worth growing, well that was kind of true.
Why stay in San Francisco unless I saw my potential here? Not just with my career but the bigger picture – love, marriage, kids, all that kind of shit you ignore your whole life just fucking away until you’re forced to look at it.
A while later we’re in her store. I’m leaning against the counter, taking small swigs of deliciously burning whisky, feeling loose, and flipping through a men’s catalogue. Unfortunately, Aaron is the model on every single page. All this time later, I can’t really figure out what she sees in him. I mean, I know he’s good-looking, I suppose, or enough to be a model. But he dresses like a teenager, like he’s halfway out the door to go surfing, he rarely wears shoes and he laughs like a hyena.
Steph is a hardworking, intelligent woman. They can’t possibly have anything to say to each other on a daily basis, which makes me think that their relationship is based purely on sex. I know there’s nothing wrong with that per se, but even entertaining the thought makes me want to be sick.
“So how did it go? How were your parents?” Steph asks, looking over a rack of clothes at me. She obviously caught the grimace on my face and thought I was thinking about earlier.
“Oh you know,” I say. “Horrible.”
Her brow furrows in concern. “That bad?”
I sigh and put my head in my hands. “You know what’s funny? It’s that when I was younger, I thought my relationship with my parents would change, evolve. You know, stop being full of bullshit. But it hasn’t.” I look up at her, knowing I can tell her almost anything. “I see them differently now. The way I think of them, relate to them, has totally changed. But they still treat me like I’m some fifteen-year-old punk. They still think I have no idea what I’m doing in life, that I need them every step of the way, that they have the bloody right to interject and control me.”
“What were they trying to do?”
“Get me to move.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“New York. They bought a place and want me to live there.”
“But why?”
“I guess because Bram isn’t turning out quite the way they wanted,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know. My father is one of those people who is very concerned about the image of family, about legacies and all that shit. He can recite to you our family tree and all the notable Scots that we’ve come from. Everyone in this McGregor line seems to have some hand in politics or some other roles of power and whatever. My father obviously had hopes for Bram with him being the oldest, but he just pisses away his time. So now he’s realizing that I’m all there is. He wants me to be like him.”
She puts a jacket away on the rack and then comes over to me, folding her arms across her full chest. I try not to stare at her breasts.
“You know, most parents would be absolutely thrilled to have a son who is a helicopter pilot,” she points out.
“Well I don’t have most parents. They don’t really think it’s much of an accomplishment at all, to be honest. It’s not distinguished or intellectual enough.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you need your brain to fly one of those things.”
“Steph, are you calling me intelligent?’
She shoots me a cheeky grin. “Crazy, huh? You better appreciate my kindness while it lasts. Speaking of…” she trails off and then disappears into the storage room in the back. While she’s rummaging around, I entertain the brief fantasy of following her in there, locking the door behind me and cornering her up against one of the shelves. I want to press myself against her, just so she knows what she does to me, I want to slide my hands up under her flimsy top and cup her breasts, squeezing them until she moans, then take off her shirt and suck on what are sure to be perfect, pink nipples.
I want to tell her all the filthy things I think about, be real, raw and unfiltered. I want to make her cheeks flush from my dirty mouth and her body squirm with desire.
Jesus. I step back behind the counter more to make sure my erection is covered and try to ignore the building lust. I have to stop thinking about her this way, but I’ve also being telling myself that for years and years. One day I’m afraid I won’t be able to help myself and it will probably ruin one of the best relationships – if not the best – I’ve ever had.
But fuck, what if she feels the same way? What if she wants me as deep inside of her, fucking her brains out 24/7, as I do?