Frigid

It was a colder Christmas than the year before.

Perched high above the city skyline, she could attest to that. She wrapped her heavy coat tighter around and hunched a little more on the balcony railing. Her feet dangled over the thin lip that was all that separated her from life and death. She had to sigh because she felt so detached.

“What the hell are you at, you loon!” That abnormally high-pitched voice came from the petite brunette hugging the doorway at the threshold to the balcony. Imogen twisted her gaze over her shoulder and waggled two very sardonic eyebrows at Mo.

“It’s just too much for me. I can’t deal anymore,” she said dramatically. She slid forward onto the ledge to the soundtrack of Morgan’s muffled squeak, and then laughed and tossed her long legs back over the cement rail. “Don’t you ever want to air out your toes?”

“You can do that laying on your back and jiggling your legs.”

“Ooh, suggestive,” Imogen laughed, brushing by her smaller friend. With a sigh of relief that the death-defying theatrics were momentarily over, Mo followed her in.

“It wasn’t meant to be, but that can probably cure what ails you, too.”

The taller brunette rolled her eyes and unfolded across the chaise lounge. “Again with the ‘getting laid has magical, curative qualities.’ Really, Mo? These guys you set me up with are walking quarantine zones.”

“They are not,” Mo retorted, tossing herself down on a plush chair and stretching out with an inglorious flop. “Adam was nice, Oscar was nice, and Brock was as sweet as a puppy.”

“Yeah, to you. Stop setting me up with guys that worship you. I hate coming up short.”

Mo gave a rude snort.

“You know what I mean. Oscar spent the whole date talking about the comparative ethics of Sesame Street and Blue’s Clues—“

“He’s a kindergarten teacher—“

“And then he just had to put in that you preferred Sesame Street and had managed to turn him against Ernie—“

“All right, I get it. No more set-ups. Go to a bar. Get drunk. It’s all so simple,” Mo groaned.

“Yeah, but unfortunately I am a child of the 80’s, so no illicit sex for me.”

“What does that mean—‘I am a child of the 80’s.’” Mo said, deepening her voice to mimic Imogen’s. “I’m a child of the 80’s! I have fun!”

“Yes, well, there are always opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“You calling me a slut, prude?”

Pillows flew and the battle was quick and vicious. Like most times, Imogen emerged victorious.

She gave the impression of extreme tranquility and always appeared laidback to the point of unconsciousness, but any true friend knew she had a stick up her ass and a penchant for sudden movement that could take many a more alert person off guard. And Mo more often than not had her attention elsewhere. She made for an easy target.

The sprite-like darker brunette had never taken things as seriously as Imogen. In appearance, she was elegant, sultry, brown-eyed, absolutely confident and perfect. But she didn’t have the attention span of a goldfish, and while she had occasional spouts of brilliance and graduated two years early from VCU, she didn’t a show a brain—or perhaps dedication—worthy of more than the sales associate’s position she held at Dillard’s.

She was actually and primarily Imogen’s older sister’s best friend. That was the way they met—otherwise the restless art school graduate and the studious University of Virginia scholar inhabited worlds too different to intersect.

Imogen Swell was a good five inches taller than her temporary roommate, and where Mo was as thin and delicate as a bird, Imogen was like a wall, albeit a lithe one. She could withstand a body slam courtesy of her linebacker brother but she might cry if she stubbed her toe. Light brown hair and silvery-green eyes were set in a pale face that contrasted with Mo’s dusky skin. Imogen worked like an ox pulling tough classes through high school and whether she had planned to relax a little once she got to college or not, she was working just as hard in her second year as she ever did to get there.

In about two hours, Mo was throwing the third huge party since Imogen’s winter break started. Mo was an Ackerman, which meant she had money to burn, drown, and tear into tiny pieces to toss over a ticker-tape parade; her father gave her the money to rent out the penthouse of the Bowing Hotel, which, in this city, was the equivalent to renting out a block in Manhattan. Even if everyone didn’t already know who she was, that simple fact would make them come.

But to Imogen it seemed like Mo knew everyone in the city. It was a little exhausting.

“I’m calling you promiscuous,” Imogen said with mock cautiousness. Mo warped her mouth and settled into an accusatory frown. Then it was gone and she flounced up and about, studying the penthouse.

“Come on, let’s go string up more lights.”

When Imogen saw the multi-colored bubble lights Mo was dragging from the badly beaten box against the wall, she groaned. “Geez, Mo, we look like white trash.”

“White trash that won the lottery. Don’t be so conservative.” She started draping the strand over doors and windowsills, and as the light dimmed in the frosty city beyond the open door, Imogen decided to relax a little and enjoy the season. It wouldn’t be long before she had to head home and deal with the stifled family dynamics that attached themselves to any event her sister attended; maybe she could celebrate a little here in happy company.

“Okay. Where are those lights?”

By the time the caterers arrived and set up bar and appetizers, the place looked like it’d been hit by a tornado of flamboyantly bad taste, and it was lit up like, well, Christmas. As the finishing touches were being put on the food, Mo dragged Imogen back into the enormous, fluorescently lit bathroom they shared and flourished eye shadow that was too close to hot pink for comfort and blush that was a bit too orange.

“I thought you wanted to loosen up!”

“Not as much as a cheap hooker! Mo, really? With my hair?” Truth be told, the look in Mo’s eye made her a little nervous. Not long after, though, Mo was attacking her friend’s face with gusto.

“You know who’s coming tonight? Brandon and his brother. Do you remember Brandon?”

“I just met him last week,” Imogen growled, wincing repeatedly with every tug and jab.

“I know, but you were looking pretty overwhelmed last time.”

Imogen threw up her hands, nearly upsetting the balance of Mo’s various facial condiments and causing an irritated cuff on the back of her head. She glared at Mo’s reflection, but it was lost on the smaller girl because she refused to look up and be cowed.

“That’s because your drunk friend took off his shirt and threw it over my head. Twice. I don’t even know how he got it back for the second time.”

“He’s very dexterous, not to mention sneaky. And at least it gave you a chance to see that washboard, huh?” She bobbed her head in agreement with herself and critically studied her work thus far.

“There was a shirt over my head. And it smelled like he’d been smokin’ da ganja.” Imogen made the universal sign for toking it up and felt a little silly and debased for it.

“All that means is no beer belly,” Mo said sagely. “Now, there we go. That’s no cheap hooker. That’s at least a ten dollar hooker.”

Imogen examined her reflection with resignation. “Just as long as you don’t put me into leather or plastic, I’ll live.”

“Shucks. You just beat fun to death, don’t ya?”

“With a lead pipe and without pity.”

She did end up in some fishnets, but the outfit itself was semi-respectable in that it covered the bits that needed covering, and it wasn’t neon.

“Do you have any barbed wire?” Mo asked as she was getting herself ready.

Imogen paused, cocked her head, and then carefully patted herself down as if searching. “Oh, no. I forgot, I’m not a Midwestern farm hand, despite all appearances.”

Mo exhaled meaningfully, counted to ten under her breath, and then tied her hair up with some pipe cleaners. The effect was…effective, whatever the intended effect was. Imogen watched her strut about the apartment with fascination at the way her hair bobbed in syncopated rhythm with the sway of her immense, chandelier earrings.

The doorbell rang at a quarter past six.

With the lights dimmed, the wine flowing freely and the liquor making the rounds, full swing hit not even an hour later, and Imogen was already suffocating.

“Well hey now, gal,” one of Mo’s friends giggled. “So glum, here with your curtains.”

Imogen twitched them in acknowledgement.

“You’re Morgan’s friend’s baby sis, aren’t you?”

“Well, I have lost all my baby teeth and Ma thinks I’ll need a training bra any day now,” Imogen replied, instantly sorry for the snideness in her voice. It was already a little husky from smoke and a shot of tequila, so it probably didn’t carry across considering the level of sobriety in the two other girls. They only giggled harder.

“Yeah, she’s the funny kid. You want some vodka, Eileen?” They proffered a pilfered bottle. Imogen demurred and didn’t bother correcting them; they were quickly distracted and stumbled off like they were in a three-legged race. If one of them fell, the other would be flat on the hardwood, too.

With a light sigh, mostly in frustration at her own inability to break out of the same mold in which she’d been dwelling for nineteen years, Imogen slid behind the half-drawn curtains out to the balcony. Only two people were out there, one of them smoking and the other sleeping, so she swung onto the rail, opting for the corner for more balance should someone decide it would be hilarious to scare and/or shove her off.

The relative quiet of far-off sirens and pre-snow hush was soon disrupted by a stumbling quartet of drunken guys, hooting things the like of “Did you see the girl on those tits?”

Nervousness made her switch around and face inside so she could better brace herself, but it also drew their attention.

“Heeeeeeey, it’s the kid! The Engine kid!”

Imogen gritted her teeth while they cheerfully slaughtered her name. Her entire body tensed when they crowded around her.

“Heeeeeey, it’s me! Bobby! Bob to my girls,” he slurred with a wink and a salute with his beer.

“Yeah, Bobby, I remember you,” she said hesitantly.

“Leave the girl alone, Bobby,” another said, and she was startled because his voice came from beside her elbow, where he was leaning out on the wall and soberly regarding the nighttime skyline. What she saw showed her a broad-shouldered man with a buzz-cut and a clean jaw.

“I wouldn’t mind being alone with that tight body—“ a drunker guy started to say.

“Shh, don’t offend the rich girl’s friend,” the fourth shushed noisily. He dropped a shot glass on the ground, grimacing when it shattered, and then mumbled something like “Now the world is my shot-glass” before leading the raiding party back into the music-pumping penthouse interior. Imogen couldn’t help a sound of relief, and the man beside her chuckled.

“Being the designated driver isn’t so bad. It’s easier to convince them they did things they didn’t do. Makes for years of good stories.”

“Mmm,” she replied unencouragingly. He only chuckled again and turned the same direction she faced, leaning back onto his elbows.

“You’re Mo’s friend, Imogen?”

“Well, I’m her friend’s little sister. My sister’s coming out here in a few days.”

“And then, what? You get shunted off to the side?”

“No, it isn’t like that!” Imogen instantly protested. She saw the slash of his grin. “But I’m guessing you know that.”

“Wow, your buttons are ripe for the pushing.” The way he said it sent a slight tingle through her belly.

“I have no buttons,” she said. Slowly and easily, the stranger turned and slid his hands up the lapel of her coat.

“Well, it gets evocative if I say your zipper’s ripe for unzipping, doesn’t it?” He cocked his head close to hers and only smiled again when she brushed his hands away. She was unused to men—sober men—being so forward with her. “I like the fishnet.”

“So I guess I know where your tastes lie,” she said, again annoyingly snide.

“I’d hazard that you don’t know anything. First of all, my name. You haven’t even asked.”

“I don’t want to know, obviously.” Imogen caught herself sounding like a bitch. “Sorry, I’m just a little edgy around lots of people. So all right, what’s your name?”

“John Smith.” He tugged her coat down to cover the gap Mo’s fashion choices left between her skirt and her top.

Imogen sighed and started to push herself off of the rail, but he caught her hand and smoothed it across her fishnet-clothed thigh before gripping it in his and pressing it lightly against her stomach. “Morgan talks about you like you’re some vibrant fatale.”

“My stiletto’s are in my other penthouse, and besides, of course she’s going to do some false representation when she’s trying to get me a date,” Imogen retorted. The man looked bemused.

“It seems like that false front wouldn’t last through even a first date.”

“She just wants me to get laid.” When she realized what she’d said, it took everything not to cover her mouth like an ingénue.

“Yeah, I know.”

A horrible suspicion slithered into her mind. “Did Mo send you out here? Is that why you’re t-touching me? Stop that!” she spluttered, pushing away the hand that slid down her calf to the heel of her foot. “What’s your name?”

“Joah,” he said after a long pause. Then affecting the slurred accent of his friends “But my girls call me Joe.”

“You got a last name?” Imogen was strangely happy that he had a strange name.

“Ah, but if I’m just trying for a one-night stand, I wouldn’t be offering a way to track me down, would I?”

“How about if I end the suspense now and you can ruin the ending of the movie for me? I’m not going to sleep with you. Now, do you have a last name?”

“I could change your mind,” he said, seemingly ignoring her. A few snowflakes settled on his lashes.

“I’m fairly stubborn and I’m the kind of person who doesn’t eat anything she doesn’t want to no matter how much she’s threatened.” Imogen was thinking of every dinner when she was little, being served plates of the same foods over and over again until her parents finally accepted they couldn’t make her try anything.

“Oh, you would want it.” She glared stubbornly and he laughed. “Stites. Joah Stites. But now I don’t know your last name.”

“Ask Mo,” she said sharply, pushing down and away from his hands. Unfortunately, he caught her against the wall before she could walk off.

“The thing is, I owe her. So whatever happens tonight for you, it’s going to happen with, around, or on top of me.”

Imogen choked unattractively on her own spit. “You…what? You don’t…how can you…” She got a tight grip on her sanity and her wayward tongue. “So, wait, it’s just a favor to Mo because, what, you’re in love with her, too?”

“Now that’s a strange question.”

“Every guy she sets me up with is settling.” It came out more resentful than she meant it to. In an alien and surprisingly gentle gesture, he tipped her face up.

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Oh? You said yourself I’m not vibrant or pretty.”

It was the first time she heard any emotion in his voice beyond teasing condescension. “That’s not at all what I said, and you sound like a self-pitying wreck.”

She blinked in astonishment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“I said, I believe, that she described you as a vibrant fatale. What I meant when I implied you weren’t is that you are a bit quieter and you don’t have the sexiest aura.”

Somehow, that wasn’t much better. “Right. Look, can you just let me go? I’ll tell Mo you tried, your debt will be paid—“

“Well, the thing is, Green Eyes, now you’ve got me a bit intrigued.”

The quick precision and sophistication of his voice made her wonder just who he was, and the words, somewhere underneath the layers of neurosis, excited her. “Don’t talk about my eyes,” she muttered in defense. She could practically feel his amusement, and she jumped when his hand cupped her cheek and brought their gazes back together.

“It’s a free country, Green Eyes, and your name doesn’t exactly lend itself to nicknames. Do you have anything you prefer? Like a cute little middle name?” His fingers against the pulse at her throat and the arm he had jammed against her ribcage and propped against the wall behind her were very distracting, but not as much as the nearness. All of these combined to make her a little slow on the uptake.

“Elodie,” she coughed up. His eyebrow quirked.

“Your parents must be interesting people.”

“They would’ve been if they weren’t lawyers,” she replied. Joah leaned in.

“If they made you, I call them interesting.”

“You don’t know me.”

He was silent for a moment. “Not if you keep trying to wriggle away from me.”

“You make me sound like a fish on a hook,” she said, proving the analogy when she made a half-hearted struggle to slide away from him. He only locked her between both arms.

“What kind of lure do you go for?”

“What?” she asked stupidly. The fishing metaphor was a little corny for her to grasp right away.

“Alright, I’ll put this plainly. What turns you on? And what do you want me to do about it?”

It took her a long time to regain her voice. “Crazy people definitely don’t turn me on, and you fit pretty firmly into that category, so why don’t you just—“

“Really, you’re trying awfully hard to avoid an honest conversation.”

“You fill it with innuendo and blatant come-ons and call it an honest conversation?”

“Well, you know I want to get in your fishnets, so there’s not a whole bunch of bullshit.”

Feeling a little dizzy, she asked, “Are we back to the fishing metaphor?”

“No. We’re talking about these,” he murmured, sliding his fingers up her skirt to tug at the part of the stockings that curved around her bottom. She squeaked and unwittingly pressed herself away from his fingers and up against his body.

And it felt good.

He slid the fingers of his other hand over the skin just under her coat; her stomach tensed.

“Don’t touch me.”

Joah leaned in and rubbed the line of his jaw against hers. “I suppose I don’t have to put my hands on you to make you want me.”

“This is not Christmas spirit. Really, you’re ruining the holiday for me. I just want to think about Jesus,” she said in desperation, shoving away one of his hands and then shying back when he just replaced it with another.

“Well, I don’t know if I can help you there, but I can help you say ‘Oh God’ a lot.” The way he tipped his head had his eyes catching the light from inside and she saw that they were very blue and very clear. Somehow seeing his eyes made it more intimate, and she once again tried to slide away, down the railing.

“Listen, Joah the Heretic, I’m kind of hungry, so I think I’ll just—

“You know, you shouldn’t eat within four hours of going to sleep, and you look like the type to turn in early. I guess I’ll just have to save you from yourself.” He locked both of his arms on either side of her hips, clamping his fingers around the outside of the railing so that she had to lean back and he was looking directly into her eyes. “Why are you so stiff? Parties are the time to have fun. You’re in college. Don’t tell me you don’t have fun.”

“I do have fun. Just not this way,” she growled, shoving at his locked elbows. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“No one said anything about sleeping with you,” he said in a guttural voice. She tried to maneuver her knee between them to jab him in the stomach or against a more sensitive target, but he only laughed and brought himself more snugly between her legs. “Don’t tell me a guy has never come on to you.”

“Of course they have,” she snapped irritably. She really wished he would stop playing on her insecurities about her looks. “They have, however, all been drunk, and for all you say you’re the DD, this isn’t really convincing me.”

“Trust me, I’m completely lucid.”

“Who the hell are you and why do you talk like money?” she finally spat. In her experience, people tended to get defensive about class. Especially around here.

“A swing and a miss,” he chuckled. But he pulled back enough to let her breathe and assess the emotions roiling through her. A healthy dose of it was disgust and irritation, but very little of it was fear, and too much of it was excitement. “You know, nothing bad will happen if you let yourself go once in awhile.”

“Except pregnancy and an STI. No thank you. Now, Joe, Joey boy, if you don’t mind--”

“I mind,” he said, catching her hands and trapping them between the two of them. “If you don’t stop squirming, you’re going to pitch backwards off the balcony. Not to mention you’re weakening whatever convincing argument you’re cooking up.”

“What are you talking about? And I’m perfectly balanced right here, thanks, not that it would be a danger if you would just let me—“ Again she tried to get her knee between them to provide some sort of lever, but this time he moved his hands to her bottom to prevent her, scooting her hard against him so that she figured out exactly what he’d meant about her convincing argument. A thrill of excited fear shot through her and she looked up at him, pausing in her struggles.

Joah only smiled, even if his breath sounded a little ragged. “I’ll make you a deal. You kiss me—once. You kiss me and I’ll tell you why I owe your friend, or your sister’s friend, and then I’ll leave you alone if you’re not convinced you should help me pay my debt.”

It wasn’t the most romantic offer, but since she had no intention of helping him ‘pay his debt’ with her dignity, she had to consider it. Imogen regarded him carefully, studying his face to see if, despite everything, he was actually an okay guy who could be trusted to keep his word.

“Okay,” she finally whispered. His grin was wider this time. But after a few moments of her waiting for him to make his move, she got irritated. “What? Go on!”

“No, I said you had to kiss me.” He touched his fingers to her lips and then his own. Her expression, she knew, was completely embarrassing. Horrified, maybe. She froze and stared up at him.

“It’s not going to happen,” she said in a flat voice, without a shake in it. Joah actually laughed out loud at that.

“Come on, Green Eyes. You don’t strike me as a wilting wallflower.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she snapped, suddenly supremely annoyed.

“It’s just a kiss. I’m not asking for your first-born.”

It was the hint of impatience in his own voice that got her back up. Well if he was waiting for her to make the first move, then she’d make it.

Imogen knew how to kiss. Just because she hadn’t gone all the way didn’t mean she hadn’t had her share of that. She was in college, after all, and she wasn’t ugly. Not a femme fatale, like Joah so tactlessly said, but she was still pretty enough. She very deliberately rolled her eyes to the heavens and jerked him to her, laying her mouth over his and pouring everything into it. She attacked his lips, then rolled her tongue into his mouth and reveled in the shocked stiffness of his body against hers.

Then he responded and she felt like an idiot. She wasn’t experienced. It was ridiculous to think she knew how to kiss. Joah knew how to kiss. He tamed the unformed wildness of her movements and turned them into something unbelievably right, sliding his hands down her back and lifting her up against him. It wasn’t until she felt the cold air against the backs of her legs that she realized he was moving them, and then she felt freezing stone against her back and jerked away from him in shock.

“Oh hell no,” he growled, tightening his grip on her thighs and thrusting his tongue back in her mouth. He began moving his body against her in a rhythm so close to sex that she began to get flashes of heat up to her eyelids. Then all her limbs tightened around him and his hands could roam, moving up her sides to tangle in her hair and then move back down. It was only after she realized that she had no sense of the time that had passed that she regained her senses and immediately stilled.

At least he sensed a problem immediately. He stilled as well, although he didn’t move for a good half of a minute. Then he slowly pulled back, easing her legs down with his support, and then stepping back enough to let air in between them.

“What do you owe to Mo?” she somehow got out. Joah looked a little disheveled and a little piqued. Then he got a hold of himself.

“Mo pointed me in the direction of a lovely girl.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Oh come on. Be a little less lame and a little more inventive.”

His expression was a little strange, then it smoothed again. “Alright.” He paused, looked thoughtful, then said, “Imogen, I want to have your babies. Since I saw you, the first time I was here. Since I heard Mo tell stories about this hellion of a friend’s little sister.” When she was about to laugh at him, he silenced her with a look. “Maybe I wasn’t obsessed with you then, but I was curious, and I’m so much more than that now. So accept it. I like you.”

“You don’t know me,” she said in a monotone.

“I feel like I do.”

It took an effort to roll her eyes this time. “Look, it’s a pretty speech. Really good, considering I lack sexual attractiveness—“ The noise he interrupted her with was frustrated.

“Would you get off that? That’s not what I said.” When she started to attempt to slip from him, he trapped her with two arms at her waist. She bit back a growl and tossed back her head.

“Alright, what did you say?”

“What I said was that Mo described you as a fatale. I only meant that the implications there are wrong.”

“As in I’m not—“

“As in,” he growled, dropping his face to her level and forcing her back against the wall with his proximity. “Fatale implies something of a concentrated sex appeal. Yours is a little more…rough. A little more interesting.”

She wouldn’t admit that he astonished her with that statement. Imogen swallowed hard.

“Don’t—“

Joah kissed her this time. Harder and more thoroughly than she thought possible. Just when she was about to do something stupid like wrap her arms around him again, he released her completely just to grab her face and make her look at him. “I meant everything I just said. Except the baby thing, I don’t really have to right equipment to give birth.” He kissed her forehead and she was left shell-shocked by that simple gesture. “I know about people, Imogen,” he said quietly. “I’m not declaring my love for you like some crazed stalker, okay? I just want a date with the wild girl in the shadows.”

Completely off-balance emotionally, she pressed her hand flat against his chest. She didn’t push him away.

“I don’t know anything about you.” She felt like a broken record of protests.

“Go out with me and find out. Tomorrow at 8.”

Imogen took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she blurted out. “Okay. But you! Don’t touch me inappropriately.” She poked him in the stomach, and he coughed out a laugh and grabbed her hand. He kissed it.

“Inappropriateness is relative.” He dropped his other hand to her hip and squeezed lightly. “I won’t touch you any way you don’t enjoy.” And with a wink, he stepped back and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.

She smiled in the wintry darkness.

A/N: And this is an older story (which explains why it’s a bit out of season), but pretty much another version of Accidents., with a happier ending. Same location, some of the same gestures, just different people.

Gosh I’m predictable.

“She’s Drives Me Crazy” by Fine Young Cannibal; it makes me happy