“Taylor, considering that joke you made earlier about foreplay, I need to be clear because I know you bring women here sometimes and I’m not the type of girl who…” She purses her lips, trying to figure out how to say she doesn’t want this to lead to sex.
“Don’t worry, Rosie. I know exactly the type of girl you are.”
I nudge her inside, but more gently than I’ve done with other women and much softer—subtler—than women who have been with me. I can’t count the number of times I’ve brought a chick back only to get tackled in my own place.
She lets out the air she’s been holding in relief, and I’m thankful she’s clueless as to what I’m really thinking: You’re the type of girl that thinks sex is supposed to be soft and sweet right up until you learn sex is better when it's hard and not so subtle.
Not that I’m planning on having sex with Ree. Considering how stiff she is, I doubt Ree knows how badly she needs to get sacked, and we do have a business relationship, but it doesn’t hurt to wonder.
And I do wonder what it would be like with her, considering her foot. Not that it would stop me. I’m a dancer. It’s my job to maneuver my body in unusual ways while keeping my partner one hundred percent supported.
Truth be told, she doesn’t just need an expert to teach her to dance, she likely needs an expert, like me, in many things to help her lose her V-card.
“Your place is not what I thought it was going to be like,” she says, her head spinning.
“Go in,” I encourage, jiggling the keys out of the doorknob.
“Mmm,” she hesitates and I don’t see what the problem is until...
The fuck? My apartment is a mess! Shit!
There’re clothes everywhere. There’s even a pillow at her feet.
I pick it up. Goddamn, if she were to trip over that...
I pick up a pair of pants... a few shirts... and even a towel sprawled over the floor.
“Are you always this messy?” She asks, giggling with one set of fingers over her mouth.
For some reason, I get the idea that I’d like to pull her fingers and pop them into my own mouth.
“Uh...” I pick up my leather jacket and toss everything onto a side chair. I’ve never cared what chicks think when they walk in here. Some of them even clean up after me, but I’m fumbling to find an excuse for not picking up after myself.
“For the record, I’m glad,” she says, finally walking in. “It’s nice to know you’re a human being and not ‘perfect’ or an ‘overworked machine’ like some of your critics say.”
“Critics? I didn’t know I had any.” I dust off my hands and walk over to the kitchen island where I pull out a stool for her. “Would you like to sit?”
“Yes,” she says bashfully, shuffling to plop her little round butt down.
After helping her to scoot in, I wash my hands and pull out a pan. “So, what else do my critics say?”
She hangs her cane over the counter’s edge. “I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“I don’t really care what others think, to be honest, but it seems like you do.”
“It’s my job to care.” She gives me a side smile. It’s a businessy smile, with a firm nod. I don’t really like it. I’m finding a need to find a way to take business out of this equation.
Pulling out the single portion of beautiful fleshy orange salmon I had delivered yesterday along with a bundle of asparagus from the refrigerator, I also grab some olive oil and spices I have mixed myself (learned that in Asia as well) from the cupboard. I sprinkle and rub the spices between my fingers, lean over the kitchen island that separates Ree from me, and put my fingertips to her nose. “Here, smell.”
She studies my fingers with squinted eyes before she takes a whiff. “Mmm.” Her face brightens.
“Good, right?”
“Mhm.” Her rosy cheeks make me eager to let her have a taste.
I douse some olive oil in the pan, heating it up. “I can’t wait to see what you think when you take a bite.”
“I thought you said you don’t care what people think.”
“I don’t.” I toss the salmon into the smoking pan. “Just my Rosie.”
I sense her shuffle on her stool. “Are you referring to me?”
“Who else could I be referring to?”
“Why Rosie? Why do you call me that? Is that the name you give to whomever your current mistress is at any moment in time?”
“To say I have a mistress would mean that I’m married, which I’m not.” I rinse the bundle of asparagus. “Were you hoping to become my mistress?” I ask, swiveling my head to show her my sly side smile, which she doesn’t see. She’s examining my studio, and she doesn’t look happy. I shut off the faucet and toss the asparagus spears into a boiling steamer pot. “Hey, don’t let the small size of my place fool you. I’m a wealthy man.”
“Yes, I know. It’s your mansion your grandmother lives in, which you inherited. You live here because it’s close to the school. But I’m surprised you’ve hardly decorated.”
“Because that would be my mistress’s job,” I chuckle and glance at her again to see her roll her eyes. “You’d better start looking at swatches to dress up the interior of this place if you’d like for me to take you on as my regular harlot.”
“Lucky for you, I don’t do interior design, so you’re off the hook. I’m also not mistress material. I can’t cook or clean or any of those things.”
“You wouldn’t have to do any of that,” I scoff. “Maids are the ones who cook and clean. My mistress would be the one to—”
“Don’t say it,” she interrupts.
“Fuck me. Regularly.” I articulate clearly. “And take all my money.”
She puffs some air, flapping her lips and dumps her head onto the counter out of embarrassment.
Laughing, my shoulders roll as I pull out two plates. I cut the cooked salmon in half and position the fish in the center then divvy up the asparagus. Sliding both plates over to her along with two glasses of water, I notice a smile playing on her lips as she comes up to investigate what I cooked for her.
Walking around the island, I take the seat next to her. “Maybe I should be your mistress.” I hand her a fork. “Maybe I should hang out at your place and you could use me, fuck me all you want, and I’ll even cook and clean for you.”
She clenches her teeth, seemingly trying to keep a straight face, but her nose is crinkling. My stomach does another somersault. That crinkle means she’s amused and giddy inside.
“You can hardly clean up after yourself,” she says, taking a bite.
I watch her for a moment...
Waiting...
“Oh my!” She licks her lips. “This is good.”
I smile. “So, my critics are pleased for today.”
She nods, taking another bite and another.
“Better than macaroni?” I ask.
“Yes, way better. I thought I knew everything about you.”
“You didn’t know what the interior of my apartment looked like.”
“No,” she smiles bashfully, taking another bite, and speaking with her mouth full. “And I had no idea you could cook. I haven’t had something this good since I was between foster homes and living with my social worker.”
Foster? Social worker? Whatha?...
I drop my fork as a pang hits my chest. “What did you just say?”
She coughs. She grabs at her throat and coughs again.
Oh damn, I think she’s choking!
“Ree!” I pat her back and the food at the back of her throat seems to clear as she swallows, catching her breath.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her cheeks turning bright pink. “I’m so embarrassed,”
“Don’t be,” I say, continuing to rub her back. “Must taste even better than I thought. Just wait till you try my loin. I heard it’s the best. So good you might choke on that, too.”
She blinks wild-eyed at me. “Will you ever stop with the sexual innuendos?” She ta
kes a sip of water.
“Nope.” I love your reactions... “But uh, what were you saying about foster parents and a social worker?”
Rerun places her fork down. “It’s nothing. Just my past.”
“I want to hear about it.”
Truth be told, I’ve never given a shit about other people’s pasts, but its clear Rerun has something interesting to tell. Perhaps as interesting as my own past. I wonder if the reason she has to hobble has anything to do with growing up in the foster system.
“What happened to your foot?” I inquire trying to sound sincere, hoping I’m hiding how ridiculously bad I want to know.
“You can stop rubbing my back, Taylor,” she says, bowing her chin.
I pause, not realizing I’d been rubbing so hard, except I decide not to stop. Instead, I circle my palm until I see her body sway and melt into the motion of my hand.
Ree has no clue how badly she needs to be rubbed. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to rub someone so much. Or touch. Or hold.
But only because...
You know...
She fell and I need to make it up to her.
But this elephant in the room—her foot. We absolutely need to get this conversation out of the way.
“Tell me what happened,” I demand to know this time.
Her shoulders rise as she takes in some air. “As I said, nothing happened. I was born this way.”
“What way?”
“I have a...” She bites her lip and rubs her arms, squirming.
“What?”
She rubs her temples. “I have a...”
Jesus Christ, woman! Will you just fucking say it already? “Please tell me.”
She clenches her eyes shut. “Tucker. He’s a... uh...”
“Did you just say ‘Tucker?’”
“Yes,” she nods. “I had difficulty talking about this growing up. My therapist thought it was a good idea to name my foot, which eventually took on an entire persona. I wanted to name it Mother Fucker, but my therapist got me to agree that Tucker was more appropriate for a child born with...” She clears her throat. “A few missing muscles and a foot bone shorter than it should be. I have a mild form of dysmelia, but basically, my foot is defective.”
Mild? She can barely walk.
“Hmm,” is all I can muster. I’m struggling with her answer. She turns her head to squint one eye open at me. It’s actually kinda cute how she’s eager to see my response, which...
I’m not really sure how to respond. I haven’t even seen her foot.
I look down to her brown boot with double straps. “Can’t you have surgery for that?”
“Doctors thought it was best to attempt treatment during infancy but my mother was a drug addict.”
Why does everything seem to keep going downhill for this girl?
“Say what?”
“Yeeeah,” she slurs, now trying to hide her face. “Surgeons did not want to operate on me because I was born addicted to drugs. I was removed from my mother’s care and placed in the foster system. I haven’t seen her since.”
“What about your father?”
Her cheeks blossom above a huge smile. There’s even a twinkle in her eye. “I’m like you, Taylor. I have no known father. It’s one of the reasons I’m your biggest fan. It’s why many of your fans love you. Look at what you’ve made of yourself after not having any parents. I looked up to you growing up and I remember—”
“Can you go back to your story,” I say before she gets carried away. Everybody gets carried away with my story and I’m tired of it since no one really knows the truth. “You said you were in the foster system?”
“Mhm. I went through several foster homes for miscellaneous reasons while I was an adolescent and when I was finally able to have surgery, I had three. During the third round, however, my incision site and then my whole foot got infected, so treatment was put on hold.”
Damn. “So, what happened then?”
“I needed more surgeries after that but moving between foster homes plus the need for casts and recasting made it difficult for any one set of fosters to keep up with my medical care. There were also times I had to live with my social worker because she found it difficult to find me a home.”
I swallow. This is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard.
“Why wasn’t anyone held accountable?” After what I did to my mother, I know damn well I should be paying the price. All of those foster parents should likewise be in prison.
“It’s no one’s fault, Taylor. I was born this way. People did the best they could with what they had to work with.”
She smiles, but I don’t get how she can be so cute and cheery. How can anyone be content to live this way? “Can’t you try surgery again? Now?”
“Oh no.” She shakes her head wildly. A few tendrils of her hair fall over her eyes. “I’ve put my foot through enough surgery. Doctors always hoped they could manipulate my existing muscles, which worked to an extent, but it kept getting more and more painful each time I went under the knife.”
I move her hair from her face to behind her ear. “So, it hurts?”
“Mhm.”
I’m afraid to ask but, “Does it hurt right now?”
“Mhm.” She nods, forcing a grin.
“Does it hurt all the time?”
“No, just if I walk on it too much or twist it or something, like after a fall.”
“As in...” My hand shakes, as I tuck her hair behind her ear. “After last night’s fall?”
She spins, fronting me, grabbing my forearm. “Oh, no! Taylor, please. That’s not your fault. I should’ve told you from the start.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You did try to tell me, but I wasn’t listening. I have a real problem with listening and not doing what I’m told.”
I remove her hands, giving them back to her, and rub my chest. Something aches. Deeply. Within. She places her hand over mine to calm the rubbing and a spark ignites somewhere in the pit of the darkness within. My eyes lock with hers and that spark becomes a fire, fueled by embarrassment. “I’m the reason you’re in pain today.”
“Oh, God. Please, don’t blame yourself,” she begs. “I trip on myself all the time. I’m forever falling over. You’ve seen the way I walk.” She laughs halfheartedly, trying to make me feel better, trying to blow off the fact that I pretty much pushed her to get on the dance floor only to let her land hard on her ass.
I recall how she stumbled. I recollect trying to get a grip of her but she slipped right through my fingers. I wish I could go back to last night. I wish I could save her from tumbling over and paining her foot.
Her eyes say so much about what she’s thinking right now.
She’s desperate.
And for what?
To convince me that it wasn’t my fault?
But it was. I’m the reason she’s in pain. I want to make it up to her. I want to reach out and grab her like I should’ve last night.
A dancer never lets his partner fall.
I stop my hand from rubbing my chest and grip her arm. She seems so far away. The space between us feels bigger than the building around us.
I stand up. Reaching. Moving my hand up her arm to grip her face.
“Taylor, what are you doing?” Her pale blue eyes are so huge. Her lashes are fluttering profusely.
I step in close. I want to close the space and tuck her neatly in my grasp where I want to keep her from falling ever again. I pull her cheeks between my palms towards me and she wiggles, unsure of my intentions.
I’m unsure of my intentions.
She’s so fragile, so petite. I could easily break her like any other girl, but...
This girl. She’s the first I’ve ever wanted to put back together.
I tilt her head back, bringing our faces to nearly touch.
“Taylor.” She breathes my name through quivering slick, hot lips. Lips I’m so close to tasting right now.
I lick my own lips, getting them read
y. Getting them wet. I want to be able to maneuver easily over this woman’s mouth. This is my intention. I want our tongues to dance. As it turns out, I’m not just a good dancer. I’ve been told I’m an excellent kisser and I know I’m good in bed as well. They all say it. Every girl I’ve ever been with says it. It’s why they all get psychotic once they’ve been with me. Hell, look at how Diamond is behaving and we didn’t even...
No, no. Fuck that. I don’t want to think about Diamond or anyone else. I only want to think about this girl. Right here. Right now.
I rub my thumb across Ree’s cheek. Like a flower, she’s so soft and smells so sweet. And she’s so damn delicate. Like a withering rose, broken at the stem, she’s weak.
She needs me.
Whether she knows it or not she fucking needs me.
To make her stronger.
To help her stand on her own two feet.
To know what it’s like to dance.
Except right now, I want to make her float. I want to make her forget all about her foot, the fall, the pain from last night. The second I kiss her I’m sure she’ll forget at least a little bit...
And perhaps, the second I get inside her—take care of her, make her feel good—she’ll live on cloud nine for a time and again whenever she thinks of me.
Of course, that means I might ruin her. Once I make love to her, she’ll never be happy in bed with anyone else again. But I’m willing to take that chance. I’ve broken plenty of hearts. This one is already broken. A small stitch is all it needs. I think I’m capable of giving her that.
I inhale, breathing her in once more and lean in, opening my mouth just slightly.
9
Rerun
“Mmph,” he grunts through my hand planted flat over the lower half of his face.
I jerk my head back. “What are you doing?”
He sighs, blowing hot steam into my palm. “I-wath-thwying-to-kiths-you.” He pulls my wet hand from his face and tries to kiss me again!
“No, you can’t.” I block his puckering lips once more and turn my head away.
“Ree.” He peels my fingers from his lips and plants his mouth close to my ear. “You told me you love me. On the bus. Remember?”
The Kisser Page 8