Exact Warm Unholy
by Jeffe Kennedy
Tonight my name is Mary…
Or is it? Sometimes she’s Tiffany or Syd or Bobbi. But whatever face she wears, she returns to the same bar, to find a new man and seduce him, safe in the knowledge that no one will recognize her. Until one man does.
Dedication
To Megan Hart,
Who let me borrow the first line of her brilliant book, Broken.
We rocked that project.
Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer M. Kennedy
Kindle Edition
“Exact Warm Unholy” first appeared in The Devil’s Doorbell.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.
Thank you for reading!
Credits
Content and Line Editor: Deborah Nemeth
Cover Design: Kellie Dennis, Book Cover by Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About Jeffe Kennedy
Titles by Jeffe Kennedy
~ 1 ~
Tonight, my name is Mary.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. That calls for fiery red, steampunk crimson carved into long, perfect ringlets. Not a corset, though. Not for Circle2, a bar that tends toward the conservative, at least so far as cosplay is concerned, unless it’s Halloween or something. Instead I choose the black sheath dress with the deep vee neckline to show off the inner curves of my breasts, and advertise that I’m not wearing a bra. Or anything else beneath.
Have to set the bait properly, after all. And Mary can do what I never could.
For makeup, I go with a retro vibe. I have to layer it on thick anyway, to make myself into Mary, so the heavy stuff works best. Theater pancake in the fairest tone to complement the hair. False lashes and black eyeliner, with a cat’s eye flair. Bright green contact lenses. Lipstick in screaming scarlet, just shades darker than the wig. Amazing, really, how redrawing the lines of lips and eyes change a face entirely.
No one ever recognizes me, not even me. Maybe G_d does, but we’ve had a falling out and I don’t care.
At the last moment I go for boots instead of stilettos. High heels, black leather, over-the-knee. Maybe I’ll let him fuck me in just the boots. Whoever he’ll be tonight.
The night air slaps chill on my bare arms, so I hurry the few blocks to Circle2. I don’t like to wear a coat. They’re too expensive to take a different one every time and I’d rather spend the money on wigs. Too bad there’s not a wig wear-and-return system, as I never use the same one twice.
I don’t mind the coolness either. It helps combat the heat. I’m alive with the anticipation, already wet, primed for the release to come.
Tonight I pick out a stool at the bar. Mary is the sort who’d do that. I cross my legs so my hem rides up to show a strip of skin above my boot, turning sideways to display my cleavage.
Come and get it, gentlemen.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. He’s a genial sort, always ready with a friendly smile. Never hits on me, no matter who I am that night, which makes me think he doesn’t take advantage of the women who come to the bar. That’s part of the reason I go to Circle2. It sets a tone to the hookups, I think, as the men who frequent the place are generally clean and polite.
He’s always working, six nights a week. The bar is closed on Mondays. I suspect he owns it, but we don’t have conversations. At least, not connected ones. I’m always a stranger to him. He smiles, asks what I’ll have, then leaves me alone.
Tonight it’s Prosecco and he gives it to me in a tall flute. He’s wearing a shirt that says “The book was better.”
“I’ll get that for the lady.” A tall man, dark skin, pretty brown eyes, makes the offer hopefully. He’s wearing a good suit, has nice hands, long fingers. I’ve never seen him in here before. Yes. Yes, he’ll do nicely.
“I’d love that,” I purr. I always keep my voice low, though I doubt the bartender would recognize it, above the din of conversation and whatever’s playing on the television screens. It’s best to keep conversation to a minimum, regardless. I’m not there to talk.
“Do you come here often?” The man asks.
“My first time,” I lie.
“Mine, too.” He’s telling the truth, nice man that he is. He holds out a hand. It’s chilled from the ice in the lowball glass he set on the bar. “I’m Tom.”
“Mary,” I say.
“I’m here on business,” he tells me. They usually are, another reason I like Circle2. It’s next door to a hotel where a lot of those types stay. Frequent traveler points, reasonable rates for client budgets, decent linens. But the hotel rooms are lonely and the front desk recommends Circle2 for the good prices and proximity.
I like that, too.
Tom shrugs, a bit self-deprecating. We’re doing the dance. He’s being careful, feeling his way through. None of them realize that they all say the same things. It’s like we all know the code, the order of the invitations. It didn’t take me at all long to learn the steps. “Hotel rooms get lonely, you know?”
“Would you like some company?” I finish my Prosecco and set the empty flute next to his lowball. I’ve left scarlet lip prints on the fine rim.
His pretty brown eyes fire with excitement, but he pauses at the speed of my capitulation. Sometimes they get the wrong idea. Sometimes they try to pay me anyway, or offer to buy me dinner. I don’t want food. Food I can get on my own.
“You don’t…you’re not—”
“Not a prostitute.” I smile, slide off the barstool, and take his hand. “Just lonely.”
He’s relieved, eyes going to my breasts. “Let’s go then.”
The bartender picks up the glasses. “You don’t want another round?” He often asks that, too, if he catches me before I leave. His way of making sure I’m okay, that I’m going willingly.
I shake my head and wave goodbye.
In his room, Tom offers me a drink from the minibar, but I decline. I simply turn my back to him and hold up my hair. “Would you unzip me?”
He’s surprised, but tosses aside his suit jacket and obliges, then runs his hands down the exposed skin of my back and kisses my shoulder. Mmm. Very nice hands.
“You move fast, Mary.”
Yes. Mary needs no seduction. She’s slick with wanting, aching with it. She drops the dress to the floor and turns to face him, naked except for the thigh-high leather boots. His hands go to her breasts, his mouth to hers and—oh, yes—I lose myself in it. I’m Mary, who can have whatever she wants.
He grunts as she frees his cock, springing up thick and dark between the tails of his white shirt. Knowing her scarlet lips will look good around it, Mary kneels and takes him into her mouth. He groans, hands going to her head and I stop him.
“Not the hair. Never the hair.”
He’s stupid with desire and blinks at me in confusion, then the meaning penetrates and he drops hands to my shoulders instead. To reward him for being a good boy, she takes him
into her mouth again. Mary likes to suck cock. The heft and heat of him in her mouth is almost orgasmic in itself, the flavor of man filling her head. She yanks his suit slacks down his thighs, his neat boxers a white contrast to his lovely skin, and grasps his ass in her hands to control his thrusts.
Mary is powerful as well as contrary. It’s fun to be her.
She releases his cock with a pop, stands and slaps it, watching Tom’s face go shocked. Such a nice man. Mary pulls a condom out of her boot and hands it to him. While he puts it on, she clears his things from the desk with the mirror over it, pushing aside the laptop and the many cords. His phone is there, charging, silently scrolling text messages about cost proposals. He’ll probably work after they’re done. His room no longer so lonely.
She bends over the desk, legs invitingly spread, and I watch her in the mirror. Mary is beautiful, with the dramatic crimson curls falling around her defined cheekbones, her green eyes sultry. Her white breasts hang down like fruit between her braced arms and Tom’s hands look good as they come around to squeeze them, rolling her nipples. Mary’s scarlet lips part in pleasure. The lipstick is a good one—the lines that created the lush shape still crisp and clean.
He slides his hands down to her waist, smoothing over her hips and then into her folds, murmurs about her beauty, her slick heat. It’s all good. He finds her clit, rolling it as he had her nipples, and she shivers. She wants to close her eyes, but I don’t let her.
I want to watch. Not him. He doesn’t matter.
I watch her, my creation.
Her mouth opens on a cry as she comes, face contorting in that curious way that looks like pain, but isn’t. She presses into his hands, demanding he fuck her and fuck her now. He has his fingers in her and she wriggles in abandon, makes her demands again, snarling at the nice man. Mary knows how to deal with his type.
He eases into her, gripping her hips and it’s not enough, so she reaches for her clit, rubbing it the way she likes. Tom says something appreciative, accelerating his thrusts. They’re both watching Mary in the mirror. She is wanton in her pleasure, completely abandoned. She climaxes twice more before he does.
And it’s nearly enough.
Almost exact.
As soon as he pulls out of Mary, she heads to the bathroom, scooping up her dress from the floor. She’s not the sort for cuddling in the afterglow. Mary might have work, too, before the evening is done. Perhaps she’s a CEO of a major company. No. That’s not quite it. I watch her in the mirror as she wipes herself down with a soapy washcloth. Mary is an artist. A painter, maybe, and now she’ll go back to her trendy loft and paint on huge canvases. Flowers, in sultry shades, flagrantly sexual.
“You okay in there, Mary?” Tom adds a tentative knock on the door.
She shimmies into the dress and walks out. Tom has another scotch on the rocks poured.
“Want a drink now?” He’s unsure of her, which is as it should be. It’s when they’re sure of you that things get bad. “They don’t have Prosecco, but there’s some white wine that—”
She stops his words with a kiss. Very nice man. “I have to go. Will you zip me?” She turns around, holding the crimson hair aside, bookending their assignation. He raises the zipper and she gives him one more kiss. “Thanks. That was fun.”
“I’m in town for a couple of weeks.” He starts to hand her a business card.
She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
It’s true. Mary will go home to her trendy loft to paint all night. In the morning, she will be gone, as if she never existed.
Too bad. I really liked that wig.
~ 2 ~
Tonight, my name is Tiffany.
Like the jewelry. Maybe the platinum blond is cliché, but that’s my gut instinct and I like how it looks with the dangling crystal earrings. Tiffany would wear diamonds, but I don’t have any for her. The men who frequent Circle2 won’t care anyway. They’ll like Tiffany’s cool, aristocratic manners.
She wears lingerie—matching—complete with garter belt and stockings, all shades of cream. Her makeup is more difficult as it can’t come across as heavy as it is. I try cornflower blue contacts, but trade them out for a darker shade. That’s much better. They make her eyes into deep sapphires. Tiffany is all about the jewels. I give her a Martinique tan and a few rhinestones at the corner of one eye. Her lashes are much lighter, her eyes round. For her mouth, I go with hot pink in a piquant bow shape. She wears a business suit. White silk blouse, narrow skirt with a slit to just over the knee. I take the time to apply fake nails. Pink, like her lips.
Circle2 is quieter tonight. Tuesday nights can be like that, but I don’t want to wait until later in the week. I needed to get out, to find a man, burn off the restless ache. Maybe not a nice man this time.
Tiffany chooses a booth. Long day at the office, stopping in for a quiet drink. The bartender gives her a nod and a smile, calling out that he’ll be right over. I peruse the cocktail menu, not something I do often. Usually I have my drink decided ahead of time, but Tiffany isn’t much for having the same thing. She likes to try the specials, the signature cocktails.
“What’ll you have?” The bartender has a towel draped over his shoulder and he’s wearing a Guinness T-shirt. It’s amusing because it shows only the glowing yellow bottle cap and has the caption “Guinness by night.”
It makes her smile and he grins back. “Not everyone gets the shirt.”
Because I really want a Guinness and Tiffany isn’t that kind of girl, I break a rule—a minor one—and ask, “What should I have—what’s your specialty?”
“I make a mean Cosmopolitan.”
“Sounds delicious.” Tiffany hands him the cocktail menu as if it shouldn’t stay on the table, along with a cool society smile. She’s done with the bartender and peruses the pickings, though they are slim, indeed. Several of the men seated at the bar watch only the television. A group of guys in fraternity letters play darts in the corner. A couple are cute, but Tiffany doesn’t do college boys.
When the bartender returns with her drink, elegantly prepared, as perfectly pink as her fake nails, he says, “Gentleman at the corner of the bar offered to buy, asks if he can join you.”
“Oh?” I have to lean forward to see around him. An older man, silver hair, very distinguished, raises his beer in a salute and question. A nice man and I don’t want a nice man tonight. “I don’t think so.” I open my slim clutch and give the bartender a twenty. “Keep it.”
It’s a big tip, especially if he is the owner, but I rarely tip him. Because I almost never buy my own drinks, I usually can’t see if the men who do buy them leave tips.
“Thanks.” He doesn’t go right away. “Does that count for all takers tonight? I can tell them to leave you alone.” He’s never asked me this before and I wonder if it’s something about Tiffany that makes him more protective than usual.
“I’ll review on a case-by-case basis.” She gives him a coy smile, but he doesn’t return it. Simply shrugs and goes back to his routine.
The exchange leaves me thinking, though, and I turn it over in my mind as I sip the cocktail, idly watching the college boys, with their exuberance and tight asses in perfectly faded jeans. If I’d known they’d be in here, I would have been someone else. Caitlyn the college cheerleader perhaps. Or Sydney—call me Syd—a first-year grad student.
I know the bartender hasn’t recognized me. He showed no sign of that. It only seemed that way because we exchanged more words than ever before. Tiffany, apparently, is a talker. I need to pick a man and leave before she gets me into trouble—or worse, ruins things for us both—so I undo one more button on her blouse and rearrange her on the seat so the slit in her skirt exposes more thigh.
The older man is watching Tiffany, and no one else is. I should have been someone else if I wanted to attract rough. Sheryl, the biker chick. But she would go to a biker bar and I like Circle2. Tiffany crooks a finger to the man, beckoning him over. She is a fragile creation who won’t last
long. And he’ll do for the night.
He smiles and orders another round. The bartender casts a quizzical look in my direction, but sets to making the drink while my date strolls over.
“What changed your mind?” he asks.
Tiffany shakes her short platinum do. “I decided I was bored. And lonely. I’m Tiffany. Like the jewelry.”
He takes my hand by the fingertips, not a real handshake. Not for a woman like Tiffany. “Daniel Holscomb.”
“Won’t you sit?” She gestures languidly to the opposite bench and Daniel sits, just as the bartender arrives with our drinks on a tray.
“How was the Cosmopolitan?” he asks, catching and holding Tiffany’s gaze. Asking her if she really wants this guy here. She’s fine with it. She doesn’t hold strong opinions for the most part.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Not exactly what I wanted, but sometimes we settle.” Downright chatty, Tiffany. I have to make her voice throaty, to help disguise it, just in case he recognizes it in the future. I’d hate to stop coming to Circle2, but I’ll have to if it comes to that. The ritual depends upon it.
“Don’t settle.” The bartender gives Daniel his beer but keeps the cocktail. “Give me another chance.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, but takes the Cosmopolitan away.
“You must come here often,” Daniel says.
“No. My first time. I’m a buyer for a New York boutique. Just in town to investigate a tip on some local crafts.”
“I’m traveling for business, too.” Daniel smiles. “Hotel rooms get lonely, don’t they?”
I laugh at the standard ploy and his smile fades. I’m saved from explaining by the bartender’s return. He sets a champagne flute in front of Tiffany, which gives me pause, but it’s not Prosecco. Curious, I hold the glass up to the light. It’s golden on the bottom, deep brown on top.
“A Black Velvet,” the bartender explains. “Guinness floated on champagne. Want to give it a try?”
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