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He felt like a climber rediscovering a well-loved peak. He pinched and rolled the flesh, and lost himself in the keening noises she made. His mouth found the curve of her neck again, and he flicked his tongue out to catch a bead of perspiration that trickled down from her temple. He palmed the entirety of her breast, giving it a gentle, but no less possessive squeeze; her answering moan was winded, wanton. Sam pulled his hand back to start undressing her in earnest. He was confident she would let him.
The front door handle jiggled. The two of them leapt apart like guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Sam turned, shielding Trinity from view as she hastily buttoned her blouse. He heard the telltale sound of a key being twisted inside an already disengaged lock. By the time Eddie figured out how to admit himself into his own apartment, Sam was back in the kitchen, and Trinity was perched on her stool as if nothing untoward had ever passed between them. As if Sam hadn't just been fondling her naked breast seconds before, and as if her nipples weren't still rigid with the memory.
"Hey, Trinity! You made it!" Eddie called out happily. Sam had to turn away and pretend to busy himself with mixing another Manhattan to buy himself time to cool down. His half-drained stout still sat on the table by the window.
"Hey Eddie." If Trinity's voice sounded less enthused than it should have given the circumstances, Eddie was beyond noticing. He tossed his coat down on the couch and loosened his tie as he joined them.
"You guys celebrating without me?" He clapped Sam on the back and leaned over his shoulder. "That drink for me? It better be. Today I pulled off the impossible."
"So I heard." Sam passed Eddie the Manhattan, and watched him drain it in a single appreciative gulp. "That's not a shot," he noted darkly as Eddie passed him the glass back for a refill.
"You haven't even let us toast you yet!" Trinity manufactured a laugh—it sounded forced to Sam's ears, anyway—and raised her own untouched drink. "To Eddie! The rising star of Jameson Ad Agency! Here's hoping there are many more incredible conquests in your future."
"To Eddie," Sam repeated.
"To me," Eddie said gleefully. He pointed to a far corner of the room like he was Babe Ruth calling a home run. "And to the babelicious burlesque girls that are going to help me win a continuing contract!"
"Burlesque girls?" Sam echoed. Though he had never patronized a club personally, an immediate image of jouncing breasts and helicoptering tassels came into his head. Trinity turned to him with a sharp look, clearly not liking his tone, but the more Sam registered what he had just heard, the more he couldn't believe it. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"No joke," Eddie said. "I've already set up the dinner meeting for…"
"You're setting us up for scandal. Again!" Sam interrupted him fiercely. "The contract with Goldfinch is practically signed, in your hands, and you decide to, what—surprise Adrianna Finch by taking her out to see a bunch of naked girls gyrate in tearaway bikinis? Why is it so hard for you to follow the God damn company rules?"
"Easy, Sam." Eddie looked legitimately confused by Sam's words: his expressive eyebrows pulled together, and his mouth formed a puzzled half-smile that Sam had seen get him out of plenty of uncomfortable confrontations (usually with women) before. "It's just The Bombshell Factory down on New Brooklyn. Everyone's talking about it."
"And you're okay with this?" He threw his question pointedly toward Trinity.
"I'm sorry, but why wouldn't I be?" she demanded. She crossed her arms over her breasts, as if she already suspected the direction he was heading, but intended to make him say it anyway.
It had all the signs of a trap, but Sam was all too happy to oblige. "Do you really want prospective clients to think our agency subscribes to this crass party boy culture? Promotes it, even? Do you really think that's an acceptable image for us? Don't you find it the least bit degrading?"
"I assure you that I personally find nothing misogynistic about this arrangement," she replied. "And that there is nothing that would be publicly scandalous about the placement of this meeting. The Bombshell Factory is hands-down the new 'it' club, and the fact that Eddie even secured a reservation is something of a miracle. Most people I know find burlesque shows fun and empowering—including myself. He's not taking them to a strip club, Sam."
"And frankly, I find your own presumption sexist," Eddie interjected self-righteously. "Trinity, with your permission, I'd like to revisit the idea that Sam is the one in dire need of that live workshop course you—"
"Eddie," Trinity said. "Shut up." Eddie complied with an immediate click of his jaw. Trinity's hazel eyes lit on Sam. "But he has a point. All this focus on Eddie's behavior is ignoring a bigger problem, Sam: your behavior. Your inflexibility is more than just an adherence to the rules—it's actively threatening to set us back in our process."
"What are you talking about?" he demanded. An inner part of him broke off to watch the exchange, viewing their argument from a dejected distance. "If you want to accuse me of anything, you should focus on the fact that I am the only person in this room fighting to make sure Eddie fulfills every requirement so he can succeed!"
"You jumped to conclusions, and let your obsession with the rules get in the way of appreciating a creative win!" she retorted. "Sam, can't you see it? This is what always happens with you! I thought you were getting better. The other night at karaoke you…" She cut herself off abruptly and shook her head, as if she was already trying to shed her memories of that night. Sam's gut twisted. "But now I can see that I was wrong. You're farther from being able to compromise than ever before!"
The room lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Eddie glanced between them, and Sam realized that every party to the argument knew what it was really about.
Trinity was the one to break the stillness first. She averted her eyes to the floor, smoothed her already impeccable hair and turned to leave. "I'll be in touch," she muttered as she put her shoes on and snatched up her purse. "Congrats, Eddie. William counts this as a win."
Her words left a sting that lasted long after the door had slammed shut behind her. Sam stood, staring at the door, willing Trinity to return and willing himself to make that impossible change that everyone else seemed to be calling for. How was he supposed to learn to rework his standards...and maybe not have so many to start with? How was it so easy for everyone around him to just go with the flow?
The silence was broken again, this time by a resounding snap! as an ice cube fractured and sank lower in Trinity’s untouched Manhattan.
"Anyone going to drink that?" Eddie asked in the tone of a rhetorical question.
Chapter Six
Split
"Are you serious?" Trinity demanded.
"Yeah." Eddie was quick to pile onto her incredulity. "Is that even really you, Sam? Because I never thought I'd hear the word 'compromise' come out of your mouth. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"
