It was dark, but Max’s
silhouette was unmistakable, standing square and lean a few feet away from her.
“How did you know I was
here?” Riley chewed her lip, huddled against the arm of the raggedy couch,
eyeing the duffle bag at Max’s feet.
“Same way you knew I
would come.”
“You didn’t have to,”
she whispered.
“The hell I
didn’t,”
“You gonna turn me in?
“What do you
think?” He bent down to remove a grease
stained package from the duffel.
“Brought you a burger.”
“Cheese?”
“Nah. I know you like
cheese, but it was all they had at the gas station this time of night.”
Riley twisted her mouth
into a teasing smirk. “You’re such a
disappointment.”
He returned her irony
with a laugh, taking another step forward and cracking a smile in the
moonlight, making Riley wish she could throw her arms around him. Instead, she took the paper bag from his hand
and set it on the coffee table amidst the dust and debris.
Headlights flashed into the room from the
road. Hardly anyone ever drove so far
off the highway that time of night. Her
bare shoulders twitched as the high beams cut through the darkness.
Max still lingered at
the edge of the couch, too far to reach her even if he wanted. But the brief illumination gave him a glimpse
of her face, stained in mascara, frightened.
“I’m in trouble,
Max.”
“I know, baby.”
“Why didn’t I listen to
you?”
“You never did before,”
he chuffed. “Not one time in all the
years we spent in this place. That hard
head of yours ... kept you in plenty of hot water with old Ms. Perry too,
remember?”
Ms. Perry hadn’t let
her foster children call her anything else.
The word ‘mom’ wasn’t part of either of their vocabularies and the
concept of family was as intangible as the grayed woman’s constant plumes of
smoke, blowing ghost-like through the rooms.
The stench of cigarettes still clung to the wallpaper of the abandoned
house more than eight years later.
Riley started to
explain. “Devon was just supposed to
pick up some product from his dealer.
That fucker didn’t tell me he was going to rob the guy. He just dropped
the gun and left me standing there! I
called 911, Max, and I ran.” She lowered
her eyes. “Did he kill him? Big G, is he dead?”
“He got tagged in the
shoulder, he’ll live.” Max took a seat
on the other side of the tattered couch.
“What the hell were you thinking getting mixed up with that lowlife?”
“Which one?”
He laughed, “Yeah
right, you always had a talent for hooking up with the biggest asshole you
could find.”
“Not always,” she whispered.
The apology was unmistakable.
"Welcome back Ms.
Pierce. Glad you're joining us today."
I responded to her
perky greeting with a polite smile. "Hi,
Mandy. Full house, huh? Bet you’re ready for the weekend. I know I am." Too bad
it’s only Thursday.
I’d flown that New York to DC air shuttle so
many times before, I could use my frequent flyer miles to get to the moon. The
flight attendants treated me practically like family. Once again, buttoned up
in my most conservative of business suits, I was the perfect image of corporate
sterility, predictability, reliability. Ughh, what happened to me? My life
seemed like an endless blur of meetings and sales reports. Work had become who I was, not what I did and
I almost didn’t recognize the person in the mirror anymore. That girl, the one who even surprised herself half the time—I wanted her back.
There was movement in
the next seat and I glanced sideways at the reckless looking guy in a tight
fitting skater tee and a sexy buzz cut raising the sun shield on the window. The warm rays hit my face and washed his
dirty blond stubble in an amber glow. What
a contrast between the two of us, though he looked to be about my same
age. He removed his sunglasses from his
collar and placed them on the tray table along with his cell phone, then
flashed a smile when he caught me stealing a glimpse of his bad boy looks. I smiled back, but immediately returned to my
papers.
“May I have your
attention, please?” Mandy’s tone hinted
we weren’t going to like what she had to say. “Dulles is experiencing some
difficulties with several of their runways due to bad weather in the DC metro
area. We expect about an hour delay on departure.”
Above the loud hiss of the ventilation
system, a united sigh of disappointment flooded the cabin and I called the
office to let them know I’d be pressed to make the morning staff meeting on
time. It seemed everyone was making
calls, including my temporary neighbor.
When
I was finished, I couldn't help but overhear, though he was careful to speak
softly. “... keep still. I’ll have a taste of you soon, but not
yet. I just want to look at you first.”
I
pulled my papers up to my face and smiled privately to myself, assuming he was
talking to his girlfriend. The call went
on for five minutes or so, making me blush at his words. Lucky
girl, I mused. But it was odd that
he didn't seem to say goodbye or end the conversation in any recognizable
way. He simply finished with, "...
and every last drop of you is delicious."
Then, he ended the call.
I
looked away—stared intentionally across the aisle to hide the guilt displayed
on my face for eavesdropping. The
moisture in my panties was thankfully not as obvious.
“Don’t
worry,” he whispered, leaning just slightly closer with a playful smirk. “I’m not a serial obscene phone caller.” When I turned to him with a frown, he smiled.
“Well, not exactly.”
I rarely have the time to treat myself to anything. Call me a work-a-holic, but starting a PR firm from the ground up has my days jammed packed with serving the requirements of others. Demanding as they are, I have to be grateful that my list of clients is rapidly growing and it’s looking like my business will actually turn a profit some day. Still, to keep my sanity I have a daily affirmation: It will all be worth it when I can hire someone else to put up with all the bullshit, and I get my ass on another plane to work my magic on some new product launch or fundraising breakfast or whatever. All that back and forth can be murder on your body; not enough sleep, too much time in coach … not enough sex. By the time I'm ready to return, I'm guaranteed to be stressed-out, mentally spent and in desperate need of a massage. After one particularly long and aggravating day on the road, I decided that some relaxation at the hands of another was just what I deserved.
I stopped at the concierge desk. "Your website mentioned that you have a spa," I inquired with a vapid looking young woman; interrupting her not so discreet conversation with one of the porters about her last bootycall. She glanced my way, clearly inconvenienced by my pesky desire to be helped. "I'd like a massage. Can I make an appointment here?" I asked her directly.
She sighed, and told the guy she would tell him the rest later. I wondered if that tactic would be successful for her; dangling the fruit on the tree to show off how ripe it is. From the look on his face, I'd have said that it was working. "Do you want a male or female therapist?" she asked finally, staring at the computer screen.
"I'll take whoever is available first. I know it's short notice, but I was hoping to get a back rub in about an hour," I tried to make a joke, "You know, it's like an emergency." It went completely over her head and she tapped at the keyboard, sucking her teeth in annoyance. "If it's not too much trouble," I added sarcastically, becoming annoyed a bit myself - confounded that a four star hotel could have such a two star employee working for them.
Excerpt from Hypocrites:
The night he won his first city council election produced just a little bit more insight into what made Jacob tick. He stood there in front of his campaign staff, much like we do today, with a message of perseverance and a double entendre for only my ears to decipher.
I grinned. No doubt, there would be a blindfold in my future that night and perhaps some revelations. After three years of marriage, I’d learned to appreciate his cues. His public for wilder thrills or render his ripened sexuality obsolete. As dedicated to his political career as he was, it would never sustain him alone.
We escaped the last of Jacob’s constituents around eleven, feigning exhaustion and the intention to get some sleep. But once his shirt lay discarded on the floor and his glasses were removed, the man who few really know made his appearance. The fuzzy cuffs were already on the bed, a present from a Christmas past. I only grinned while lying there in the flouncy little miniskirt Jacob loves to fuck me in and waited for him to materialize at my side; first to restrict my sight and then to bind my wrists.
persona was that of stoic dignity, yet even the highs of victory could not outdo his need for wilder thrills or render his ripened sexuality obsolete. As dedicated to his political career as he was, it would never sustain him alone.
We escaped the last of Jacob’s constituents around eleven, feigning exhaustion and the intention to get some sleep. But once his shirt lay discarded on the floor and his glasses were removed, the man who few really know made his appearance. The fuzzy cuffs were already on the bed, a present from a Christmas past. I only grinned while lying there in the flouncy little miniskirt Jacob loves to fuck me in and waited for him to materialize at my side⎯first to restrict my sight and then to bind my wrists.
As Myra teetered on the
ladder, Stacy found herself peering under her miniskirt, making out the round
curve of her bottom. What was it about her? She didn't know, but the secret floated in
the scent of the air when she passed, making Stacy want to take a deep
breath.
Myra shifted to maintain her balance and Stacy got a good view
of her silky panties, unexpectedly sheer, the soft rise of her lips beyond. She stared, and really didn't care to remember
that someone might be watching. In the
shadows, she could just make out the barest of skin scarcely sheathed from the
rest of the world in fine black mesh. Stacy
had thought about being completely bare … down there, but hadn't found the
courage to go the salon and have it done.
A smile arrived with the idea of her and Myra going together.
Then Myra was losing her balance and Stacy reached to lend
support, her hand reflexively slipping under her butt. In that instant, Stacy was awash with
adrenaline, and her hand lingered a moment longer than was appropriate.
Myra passed a slight smirk over her shoulder down to Stacy.
"I knew you'd come in handy. Thanks."
Stacy yanked her hand away, tucking it quickly
behind her back. "I’m sorry.”
Thoughtfully,
Myra let her tongue dance slowly over her teeth while her eyes burned into
Stacy’s skin, putting her further on the spot.
"Lunch." The announcement from across the room
delivered
Stacy a welcome respite.
She
cleared her throat. "I'll grab you
a sandwich. Grilled chicken,
right?"
"Thanks
hon', I'll save you a seat."
Stacy
claimed two neatly wrapped paper bundles and slipped into the chair next to her,
marveling at how Myra tended to hold everyone captive with her gritty wit.
"I
didn't go all the way to Queens just to hear about the price of milk. The painful thing about mothers is you never
grow up enough to tell them to shut it."
Myra laughed casually as did Jake and Marci who shared the table and
nodded with knowing agreement.
Neither
of them would have guessed that underneath the table she had begun to trail her
fingers up Stacy’s leg. Myra dared her
to put a stop to it. With each whisper
of her fingers on her thigh, she challenged Stacy to brush her away. Stacy did nothing. And when Myra suddenly grabbed her, the
action merely produced a jolt and an exaggerated blurt of laughter with the
intent to deter any suspicion.
Myra
smiled directly at her and continued, "You know it's like I spent my
entire childhood listening to her tell me to be quiet and the only way I can
escape hearing about my cousin's new McMansion is to fake a call waiting on the
other line." Those fingers slowed
again on Stacy's thigh, circling and stroking, squeezing ever so slightly.
Stacy
looked around, her heart thundering inside her neat cashmere sweater. It was dizzying—the audacity, the sheer
naughtiness. But Stacy's silent
invitation hollered for more with her passive acquiescence.
When
Myra’s hand climbed all the way up, to the nest of warmth between her thighs,
Stacy only closed her eyes and rested
her head on her index finger. The image paraded
in the darkness, Myra's fingers tracing the edges of her sensible cotton briefs
through her leggings. Then a pinky
presented itself, small and skilled on her bud, circling and dabbing so very
softly, barely detectable, but growing more present with every passing
minute. All the while, Myra continued to
chat and eat, as if nothing were happening at all.
“Stacy,
are you alright?” Jake asked, noticing
she had become quiet; her eyes still closed with a distant expression on her
face. He had to ask twice, calling
“Stacy, did you hear me?” and finally bringing her back to the conversation.
“I’m fine,” she said, but excused herself
nonetheless. In truth, Stacy had become
uncomfortably wet inside her panties and needed to escape to the bathroom.