by Jewel E. Ann
*
Flint
THERE’S A PACK of peppermint gum in one of the inside pockets to my suit jacket and three condoms in the other pocket. My parents are in town to stay with Harrison. He’s given me his blessing to enjoy “female companionship.” I have five numbers in my phone that would be a sure thing tonight—an easy, uncomplicated hookup.
Yet, I crave her. I still taste her. How can she make me irritable, itchy, and so fucking needy at the same time? She looks at me the way Heidi used to look at me. It’s unsettling.
Sitting in my car, parked a few blocks away from my house after dropping off Harrison and my parents, I bring up her number on my phone and stare at it. My thumb hovers over the send button. I cancel out of that screen and bring up one of the five less complicated numbers. I go back and forth from one screen to the next until my thumb hits send of its own accord.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Flint?”
“Do you like Jazz?”
“Uh …” She softly laughs. “Yes, I do.”
“I’ll pick you up in ten.”
I press end and dial her address into my navigation. When I park on the street in front of her apartment building, Ellen steps out the door and hurries to my vehicle, tugging the collar of her trench coat close to her neck. So much for showing my gentlemanly skills. I pull my door shut again since she was too quick.
“Brr …” She shivers while sliding into the seat and shooting me a teeth-chattering grin. “You know, I don’t require a fancy night out. I’m good with sex if that’s what you need.”
I put it in Drive and shake my head, pulling away from the curb. “You really should make guys work a little harder for it.”
She denies me a response, but out of the corner of my eye I see her smiling. I don’t know what we’re doing—what I’m doing—but it feels like something I need for whatever reason.
“How’s your arm?”
“It’s fine. Would you forget about it already?” She sighs with a soft hum. “You’re your mom. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I chuckle. I look nothing like my mom. “Did you miss that the tall guy with dark hair was my dad and the short blonde was my mom?”
“Probably to most, you look like your dad. I notice the shape of your eyes—her eyes—earlobes, how you both roll your r’s the same, the shape of your mouth when you smile, and the tone of your laugh. It’s all your mom.”
With each passing second she sucks me into this unfamiliar world of hers. She’s smart and so damn sexy. That’s enough to get my attention. But then I blink and she shines light onto my world in a way I’ve never seen it before.
As soon as I pull into the parking spot along the street, she hops out. I would have opened her door.
“Brr …”
I laugh at her low tolerance for fifty-degree weather. She hugs her arms across her chest, and I rest my hand on her lower back, guiding her to the neon sign above the little dive that’s one of the best kept secrets in the city.
“Elle!” The bouncer at the door hugs Ellen.
I didn’t see that coming.
“Cam, how the hell are you?” She hugs him back.
“It’s all good, girl. Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”
“I moved to a different apartment. It’s not in walking distance.”
“You ever heard of a car or public transportation?”
She laughs. “Yeah, yeah … Cam, this is Flint.”
“I know Hopkins.” Cam gives me a fist bump. “Everyone knows Hopkins.”
“Oh?” Ellen’s eyes widen and her head moves back as her gaze makes an exaggerated inspection of me.
“Clearly you don’t follow football,” Cam says.
“Clearly not as well as I should.” Ellen twists her lips to the side like she’s trying to figure me out.
“How do you two know each other?” Cam asks, crossing his thick arms over his black T-shirt clad chest.
“Flint is my landlord who’s trying to evict me because he doesn’t understand my job or the fact that rats are some of the cleanliest and most intelligent pets.”
“Wow!” I tug at the cuffs to my shirt. “You just threw me under the bus.”
Cam barks a hearty laugh over the smooth music, buzzing chatter, and glasses clinking against tables.
Ellen shrugs. “Saying those words to your parents would have been throwing you under the bus. Saying them to Cam is just nudging you into the bumper.”
Cam nods toward the stage. “The corner booth is vacant.”
“Thanks,” Ellen and I say in unison.
“What happened to ‘I’m not twelve?’” I whisper in her ear as we weave our way through a sea of people huddled into small groupings of round tables and chairs.
“I changed my mind.” She slides into the low-back, curved booth and slips off her jacket, revealing a tight-fitting turtleneck sweater that hugs the curves of her breasts almost as nicely as the light denim jeans hugging her legs and ass. The dark red hair, soft blue eyes … the whole damn package is going to be my ruination. I can just feel it.
I slide in next to her so we both have a good view of the stage. “Mr. Hopkins, the usual?” the waitress asks.
I nod.
“And for you?”
“Chardonnay please.”
“So you used to live downtown?” I watch the performer on stage, going for small talk because I still don’t know what possessed me to call her.
“For six months when I moved here. Couldn’t find anything closer to the hospital that fit my budget. I had a roommate.”
“And she agreed to a six month lease?”
“He.”
I loosen my tie and slip off my jacket. “He? You moved in with a random guy you didn’t know?”
“Sort of. He owns the building but spends most of his time in Florida where he owns other rentals. His sister is a nurse at the hospital. I met her when I came to town for an interview, and she gave me his name. I know, I know, it was a crazy leap of faith that he wasn’t a serial killer.”
“That’s when you found this place?”
“Yep. Nick, landlord slash roommate slash non-serial killer, brought me here once, and I just kept coming back on my own when he wasn’t in town.”
The waitress sets our drinks on the table.
“Is that water?”
I nod. “With lime. I’m driving.”
“You’re quite cautious.”
“I am.” I return my attention to the sax player on the stage, feeling Ellen’s gaze on me, but I don’t give her a chance to take this topic any further. “What were you doing when I called?”
“Masturbating.” She grins, keeping her eyes on the stage.
“I’m serious.”
She shrugs. “Me too.” Her head turns toward me and she sips her wine. “But …” She sets the glass on the table. “If that’s too much honesty for tonight, then…” her eyes roll to the ceiling “…let’s say I was polishing my silver. Or maybe washing my hair. Writing a concerto. Studying theory and composition. Knitting. Take your pick.”
I scratch my neck. There’s something about her that my body rejects. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s me and my need to understand her motives. I don’t think she has any—and that makes me uneasy. “Why a music therapist?”
“Ha! Really? Now you want to know this? Where were these questions at my interview? No way. You go first.”
I lean back, resting my arm on the back of the booth behind her. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Why does Cam act like you’re famous?”
I smirk. “I’m not famous.”
She turns her body toward mine, bringing one knee close to her chest, her foot resting on the seat of the booth. “Maybe not, but Cam thinks you’re a big deal at least in the world of football.”
I sip my water, staring at the lime trapped beneath the ice. “I played in college and would have gone Pro as wide rece
iver had I not fucked up my knee. Instead of finishing law school, I became an agent for a very promising quarterback. That’s how people around here know me. The man behind the player who gave Minnesota their first Super Bowl win. He took early retirement. I went back to finish law school and the rest is history.”
“That’s a good story.”
It’s not a good story. It’s so fucking tragic I can barely find the will to crawl out of bed every morning.
“You don’t look happy. Your wife died somewhere in that story, didn’t she?”
I nod.
She drops it. No how, why, or where. I omitted the most defining part of my life, and she doesn’t ask anything else. Again, I can’t figure out her motives.
We watch the band play for the next hour. She finishes one glass of wine but turns down the waitress’s offer for a second glass. The dead wife topic always leads to nowhere. It’s the ultimate conversation killer. Tonight is no exception.
“Let’s go.” She slides out of the booth.
I toss cash onto the table and follow her out the door, feeling guilty for the lack of any conversation over the past hour. “I’m sorry for not saying much—”
She whips around and grabs the lapels to my jacket, pulling me around the corner to the alley. She kisses me. Her hands take mine, and she guides them to her waist. “Touch me,” she whispers over my mouth.
“Where?” I take a step forward until her back presses to the side of the brick building.
“Anywhere …” Her breath is labored and desperate as she licks and sucks the skin between my ear and the collar of my jacket. “Everywhere … just … touch me.” The pain in her voice bleeds all around us as if she’s dying and my hands are the only thing that can save her.
I touch her everywhere, making her moan into my mouth, making her clench my arms to stay upright, making her beg, making her fall apart under my touch—in a dark alley just after midnight. Anyone who could see us would think we were simply making out. Her coat hides my hand up her sweater and the other down the front of her jeans.
“Jesus, Flint …” My name rips from her chest as she tugs my tie to bring my mouth to hers. She hums like I’m the most delectable thing she’s ever tasted. Her hips jerk and circle as I rub her off.
She sucks in a sharp breath, holds it, and releases it in small staccatos while my fingers slow down with her release. Her eyes blink open, searching my face. “Thank you,” she whispers, resting her forehead against my shoulder as I zip and button her jeans before we draw attention to us.
I kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go.” She hugs my arm as I lead her to my car and open the door like the gentleman I’m clearly not after what I just did to her in the alley—what she asked me to do to her. Why? I’m not sure.
She drifts off to sleep on the way to her apartment. I try to figure out what just happened and what comes next.
“Ellen? We’re here. Do you need me to carry you up?”
She stirs and rubs her eyes. “What? No.” She shakes her head. “I’m good. Let me just get my keys out.”
I go around and open her door.
“Thank you,” she says in a sleepy voice.
“I’ll walk you up to your door.”
“Okay.”
I follow her to the second floor and the door at the very end of the hallway. “This is me.” She unlocks the door but doesn’t open it. It’s the first time I’ve sensed actual nerves on her part. “Do you want to come in for …”
“No. I should get home.”
Her shoulders sag with what looks like relief. I don’t know what to take from that. And it’s too late for my brain to make a good attempt at figuring her out.
Looking at her watch, she sighs. “It’s late. Thank you for the call. It was definitely … unexpected.”
“Unexpected,” I echo her. The word feels hollow and misplaced at the moment. Unplanned? Regrettable? I don’t know how I feel.
“Goodnight.” A small smile makes an attempt to stick to her face.
“Goodnight.” Before I can even think about kissing her again, she cracks open her door, slides inside, and shuts it behind her.
When I hear her locks click, I take my blue balls, eternal erection, and completely fucked-up mind home for a cold shower and some much needed sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ellen
THOUGHTS OF AN impending eviction notice, no Plan B, and talented fingers giving me an alley orgasm bring me out of a restless sleep at four o’clock Sunday morning. Instead of wallowing around in bed, fighting sleep that I know will elude me for the rest of the day, I slip on old clothes and clean my apartment with The London Philharmonic Orchestra’s “50 Greatest Pieces of Classical Music” floating through the air.
Two hours later I have nothing left to clean, but my mind still won’t submit to sleep, so I power walk to my favorite coffee and bagel shop. Armed with caffeine and carbs, I head home to shower and look online for a new office space.
“It’s not even seven. Your caffeine addiction must be worse than mine.” Just as I reach for the door to my apartment building, Flint’s uncharacteristically cheery voice calls from behind me.
I turn, not expecting or wanting to see anyone I know when I’m in desperate need of a shower. I have the hood to my sweatshirt pulled over my head.
“Hey …” I smile. “I’m incognito. How did you recognize me?”
“Ass and legs. They’re unmistakable.”
“Pervert.”
“Sometimes.” He saunters toward me holding two hot cups, no suit this morning, just jeans and a sweater.
“Did your parents give you permission to sneak out this morning? Or did you not go home? Was I not your only female companion last night?”
“Jealous?” His head cocks to the side.
“Nope.” I open the door and head toward the stairs. “I risk feeding your ego by saying this, but you’re what some women might call sex on a stick. As you know, I call you Sex in a Suit, but anyway, it would be a shame not to share you, so I hope whoever came after me enjoyed you as much as I did.”
“I feel cheap.”
I unlock my door and open it up to my clean apartment. “No.” Shooting him a flirty look over my shoulder, I walk down my entry hall. “I’ve seen your suits, your car, and your house, Mr. Hopkins. You’re far from cheap.”
His gaze lands on the bucket of cleaning supplies by the door to the deck. “You cleaned up for me. It’s like you knew I was coming.”
I set my coffee on the kitchen counter and fish my bagel from its bag. “Ha! No … you are quite the surprise this morning.”
He removes the lid to his coffee cup, smirking while bringing it to his mouth. He sips it while keeping his eyes on me.
“Did you stop by just to bring me coffee? Early morning bootie call? Or to remind me that I need to find a new place to rent?”
Flint’s smile fades as his eyes divert to everywhere in the room but me. “It’s not person—”
“I know, I know … it’s business, not personal.”
“Would you let me finish?” He gives me a stern look.
I blow out a slow breath and nod.
“I know you’re pissed off that I didn’t fully understand your job before signing our rental agreement, but the truth is I can’t focus on my job when you’re banging on drums and singing all afternoon. It’s not personal. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be vindictive. When we met, I liked you and thought you would be a good renter. And whether you choose to believe it or not, I do need to concentrate to do my job properly.”
I weigh his words, but they don’t solve my problem. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
His chin dips as he shakes his head.
“Sex? You can say it. I won’t judge you. Let me take a quick shower and we’ll have sex.”
“Jesus …” he whispers. “You make it sound like a job, like I’m paying you for sex. That’s not why …”
“Fine. Do you want
to sit down and talk? Do you want half of my bagel?”
He continues to shake his head.
“Then what? Why are you here?”
“I don’t know!” He flinches at his own outburst when he looks up at me.
“Well, then we can play until you figure it out.” I turn, retreating to the bedroom next to mine. “Good morning, gentlemen and my lady.” I open the door to the cage. “Come. We have company this morning. Come on.”
Flint stands in the middle of my living room with complete confusion etched along his face. It morphs into disgust and his body goes rigid when he spots what’s skittering down the hall behind me. “What the fuck?” he whispers.
“You’ve met Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, but I’d like you to meet Johann Sebastian Bach, Ludwig Van Beethoven, Frédérick Chopin, and Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, the only girl. But she prefers to go by the name Lady Gaga.”
I can’t describe the horror on his face as he watches my five pet rats roam around him and onto the furniture.
“Still thinking about having sex with me? My little classical composers won’t bother us, but I’m not going to lie … Gaga likes to watch.”
I’ve never used my pets to ward off the attention of a man. Rats are misunderstood as pets. Feeding that misunderstanding by making them seem creepy is not my intention, but right now I don’t know what to do with the man before me.
Our days are numbered, and I feel like he needs an easy out. I’ll let my babies be his out. “I don’t know if Harry told you, but Mozart is a Dumbo rat, hence the cute ears on the side of his head instead of the top, and Bach, Chopin, and Beethoven are Rex rats. They have soft, curly coats and curly whiskers. And Lady Gaga, as you can see, is a hairless rat. I have to keep a close eye on her so she doesn’t get too cold.”
Flint watches my babies for a few moments and looks at me.
“You’re welcome to bring Harry by to see all of them. My landlord won’t let me take them to the office building.”
After a few slow blinks and a blank look, he watches for long tails as he walks to the door. “Goodbye.”
“Bye,” I whisper long after the door shuts behind him.
Plopping down in my recliner, I stare at my phone, needing some love, so I call my dad.